“I’m going to tell you the truth, Dad; I’m not stuck on it—not a little bit.”
The crossing watchman shook his big head in mild disapproval.
“You’ve done fine, Larry; pulling yourself through the school by the night work in the shops. But it’s sorry I am if it’s made you ashamed of a bit of black oil.”
“It isn’t that; you know it isn’t, Dad. The black oil doesn’t count.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“It’s—er—oh, shucks! I just can’t tell, when you pin me right down to it. I don’t mind the work or getting dirty, or anything like that; and I do like to fool around engines and machinery. I guess it’s just what there is to look forward to that’s worrying me. I’ll be wiping engines for a few months, and then maybe I’ll get a job firing a switching engine in the yard. A year or two of that may get me on a road engine; and if I make good, a few years more’ll move me over to the right-hand side of the cab.”
“Good enough,” said John Donovan. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing—except that the last boost will be the end of it; you know it will, Dad. It’s mighty seldom that a locomotive engineer ever gets to be anything else, no matter how good an engineer he is. Right there I’ll stop; and I’ve been sort of asking myself if I’m going to be satisfied to stop.”
Again John Donovan made the sign of disapproval.