At any rate, Mr. Plumfield hesitated to think that any man would have passed the fire from such a motive, and preferred to believe that the engineer of the accommodation had merely been remiss. The engineer, a burly fellow named Rafe Bassett, stoutly denied that this was the case, and declared that he had noticed the bridge especially and that it was all right.
Something in his demeanour, however, aroused Mr. Plumfield’s suspicions. Bassett was perhaps a trifle too emphatic in his denials. At any rate, he was suspended without pay.
The day after this happened, Mr. Schofield paused beside the train master’s desk.
“What was the trouble with Bassett, George?” he asked.
“Well, I can’t say, exactly,” answered Mr. Plumfield. “But he struck me as being not altogether on the square. You know he’s been in trouble before,” and he brought out the little red book.
Mr. Schofield nodded.
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’m afraid this is going to make trouble,” he added, after a moment. “You know Bassett is a great brotherhood man, and is one of those big-mouthed agitators who are always talking about the wrongs of labour. His lodge is calling a special meeting to-night to consider his case.”
“Is it?” asked Mr. Plumfield, grimly. “Well, I suppose there’ll be a grievance committee to wait on me in the morning.”
And there was. Scarcely had he seated himself at his desk next day, when three engineers, cap in hand, appeared at the door and requested an audience.
“All right, boys; come in,” said the train master. “What’s the trouble?”