"Send Bartholomew Mullen here." He spoke with a decision that made me think the business was done. I had never happened, it is true, to hear of Bartholomew Mullen in the department of motive power; but the impression the name gave me was of a monstrous fellow; big as Neighbor, or old man Sankey, or Dad Hamilton.
"I'll put Bartholomew ahead of it," muttered Neighbor, tightly. A boy walked into the office.
"Mr. Garten said you wanted to see me, sir," said he, addressing the master mechanic.
"I do, Bartholomew," responded Neighbor.
The figure in my mind's eye shrunk in a twinkling. Then it occurred to me that it must be this boy's father who was wanted.
"You have been begging for a chance to take out an engine, Bartholomew," began Neighbor, coldly; and I knew it was on.
"Yes, sir."
"You want to get killed, Bartholomew."
Bartholomew smiled, as if the idea was not altogether displeasing.
"How would you like to go pilot to-morrow for McCurdy? You to take the 44 and run as first Seventy-eight. McCurdy will run as second Seventy-eight."