"He's getting his fire into shape, now," Brockway explained. "He'll have it easier after a bit."
"Why doesn't he smoke his cigar?"
Brockway smiled. "Because, down under the grime and coal-dust and other disguises, there is a drop or two of gentle blood, I fancy."
"You mean it's because I'm here? Please tell him to light his cigar, if he wants to."
Brockway obeyed, and the fireman unbent and bobbed his head in Gertrude's direction. "Thank ye, ma'am," he shouted, with a good-natured grin on his boyish face; "but I'm thinkin' a dhry smoke's good enough for the lady's car"—and he bent to his work again, while the endless procession of telegraph-poles hurtled past with ever-increasing swiftness, and the sharp blasts of the exhaust lost their intermittence, and became blent in a continuous roar.
Presently, the laboring engine began to heave and roll like a storm-tossed vessel, and Gertrude was fain to make use of the foot-rest. Being but a novice, she made unskilful work of it; and when her foot slipped for the third time, Brockway took his courage in both hands.
"Just lean back and brace yourself against my shoulder," he said; "I'm afraid you'll get a fall."
She did it, and he held himself in watchful readiness to catch her if she should lose her balance.
"Is that better?"
She nodded. "Much better, thank you. Have we doubled it yet?"