At the roundhouse door they met a big, bearded man whose carefully creased brown hat and rather vociferous business suit would have marked him elsewhere as a gentleman of elegant, if somewhat precarious, leisure. Judson Bascom was this gentleman’s name, and he was comparatively a new-comer in the Short Line service; having been appointed to succeed Fred Dawson, master mechanic, promoted.
Bascom was stooping to pat a stray dog, but he rose to his feet when the three came down upon him.
“You’re the man we’re looking for, Bascom,” said Maxwell shortly. “I want a light engine to go up to Tunnel Number Three. What have you got in?”
The big master mechanic twiddled the bunch of charms on his watch-fob, and the stray dog began to sniff warily at Benson’s heels.
“The Nine-fifteen’s got fire in her; will she do?”
“Yes. Get me a crew as quickly as you can. I want a man who isn’t afraid to run.”
The man in the brown hat and the loud plaids dragged out a fat gold watch and shook his head.
“I guess that’ll be me. There’s nobody ’round, and I suppose you wouldn’t want to wait until I can send the caller out after somebody?”
“No; I’m in a hurry,” snapped the boss. “Let’s get a move. My car is in the shop, so you can couple onto that caboose over there on the split track. There are four of us to go, and we’d crowd you in the cab.”
Big and leisurely-looking as he was, the master mechanic made good time. In a minute or two he had the smart, light eight-wheeler on the turntable, with the blower roaring, a red-headed pit-boy to fire, and half a dozen roundhouse men to put their shoulders to the table-levers. The shifting took five minutes more; and by that time a switching-engine, with Starbuck hanging from the step, came racing down the yard from the mile-away head-quarters.