"Ought to have kept away from the post-office," grumbled Dad, after a pause.
"I get a letter twice a week that I think more of than I do of this whole road, and I propose to go to the post-office and get it without asking anybody's permission."
"They'll pound you again."
Georgie looked out into the storm. "Well, why shouldn't they? I've got no friends."
"Got a girl back in Pennsylvania?"
"Yes, I've got a girl there," replied the boy, as the rain tore at the cab window. "I've had a girl there a good while. She's gray-headed and sixty years old—that's my girl—and if she can write letters to me, I can get them out of the post-office without a guardian."
"There she comes," said Dad, as the headlight of the Pullman special shone faint ahead through the mist.
"I'm mighty glad of it," said Georgie, looking at his watch. "Give me steam now, Dad, and I'll get you home in time for a nap before breakfast."
A minute later the special shot over the switch, and the young runner, crowding the pistons a bit, started off the siding. When Dad, looking back for the hind-end brakeman to lock the switch and swing on, called all clear, Georgie pulled her out another notch, and the long train slowly gathered headway up the slippery track.
As the speed increased the young man and the old relapsed into their usual silence. The 244 was always a free steamer, but Georgie put her through her paces without any apology, and it took lots of coal to square the account.