The voice was that of the oiler. Apparently he had been showing the strangers over the track-machine. For a brief space Alex wondered whether after all his suspicions were justified. But at once came the thought, “Why had the strangers hidden their horses in the creek-bottom if they were genuine visitors?” and he remained quiet.
“Where is the boiler?” inquired a new voice, evidently one of the owners of the horses.
“There is none. The steam comes from the engine, behind,” the oiler responded. “Here—it comes in here.”
“So! And does the machine get out of order very easily?” asked a second voice.
There was something in the tone that caused Alex to prick up his ears.
“Almost never. It’s all simple. Nothing intricate,” the man in charge replied.
“I suppose it could be put out of order, though—say, you fellows were to go on strike, and wanted to disable things? Eh?”
“Huh! That’s rather a funny question. But I suppose it could. Anything could, for that matter.”
“What do they pay you, as oiler?”
“Say, what are you two fellows driving at?” the oiler demanded sharply.