Bartholomew Mullen looked at me fraternally.
"Neighbor couldn't give me anybody but a wiper," said Bartholomew, in a sort of a wouldn't-that-kill-you tone.
The unconscious arrogance of the boy quite knocked me, so soon had honors changed his point of view. Last night a despised wiper; at daybreak, an engineer; and his nose in the air at the idea of taking on a wiper for fireman. And all so innocent.
"Would you object, Bartholomew," I suggested, gently, "to a train-master for fireman?"
"I don't—think so, sir."
"Thank you; because I am going down to Zanesville this morning myself and I thought I'd ride with you. Is it all right?"
"Oh yes, sir—if Neighbor doesn't care."
I smiled. He didn't know who Neighbor took orders from; but he thought, evidently, not from me.
"Then run her down to the oranges, Bartholomew, and couple on, and we'll order ourselves out. See?"
The 44 really looked like a baby-carriage when we got her in front of the refrigerators. However, after the necessary preliminaries, we gave a very sporty toot and pulled out; in a few minutes we were sailing down the valley.