He rushed to the front door.
“Bill,” he roared, “I want to know about that kid.”
“What kid?”
“The same kid! The wet one with the old coat and the box with iron hasps! The one that's been sitting here in the car!”
Bill turned his surly face to confront the young conductor.
“You've been drinking, you fool,” said he. “Fust thing you know you'll be reported.”
The conductor said not a word. He went slowly and weakly back to his post and stood there the rest of the way leaning against the end of the car for support. Once or twice he muttered:
“The poor little brat!” And again he said, “So you didn't love me after all!”
He never knew how he reached home, but he sank to sleep as dying men sink to death. All the same, being a hearty young man, he was on duty again next day but one, and again the night was rainy and cold.
It was the last run, and the car was spinning along at its limit, when there came a sudden soft shock. John Billings knew what that meant. He had felt something of the kind once before. He turned sick for a moment, and held on to the brake. Then he summoned his courage and went around to the side of the car, which had stopped. Bill, the driver, was before him, and had a limp little figure in his arms, and was carrying it to the gaslight. John gave one look and cried: