“Yes,” said Marley gruffly. That was all—just “yes.” And with that he turned abruptly and started across the tracks for the roundhouse.
Carleton, taken aback, watched him in angry amazement, then the scowl that had settled on his face broke in a smile, and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Guess Tommy is right,” he muttered, as he went on toward the office. “Marley’s all in a class by himself. We’ve never had anything like him in the mountains before.”
It was four days before Mrs. Coogan and the master mechanic came back. Days during which Marley slipped into Dutchy’s lunch counter at deserted moments for his meals, and, if that were possible, drew into himself closer than ever.
The boys were curious about Mrs. Coogan, naturally; curious enough even to question Marley. He had one answer, only one. “She’s sick, I guess,” he said. They got nothing more out of him than that.
One thing Marley did, though, that Clarihue, while he thought nothing of it at the time, remembered well enough afterwards. He asked the turner to give him a sheet of railroad paper and a manila, and in his spare moments the night before Mrs. Coogan came back he labored, bent over the little desk where the engine crews signed on and off, scratching painstakingly with a pen. Clarihue caught a glimpse of the sheet in passing before Marley hastily covered it up—just a glimpse, not enough to read a single word, just enough to marvel a little at the wiper’s hand. Marley was a pretty good penman.
Marley, of course, being on night duty slept daytimes, but the afternoon Regan brought Mrs. Coogan back to the cottage he must have heard them coming, for he was standing in the little sitting-room when they came in.
Mrs. Coogan kind of hesitated on the threshold, then she called out quickly in a faltering way:
“Marley, Marley, is that you?”
Marley was twisting his hands nervously. His eyes shot a rapid glance from the old lady to the master mechanic, and then the eyelids fluttered down.