They made Big Cloud on the dot that morning—11.26. And in the roundhouse, as Bradley stepped out through the gangway, his overalls caught on the hasp of the tool-box on the tender, and the jerk sent the flask flying into splinters on the floor—at Regan's feet.
The fat little master mechanic, on his morning round of inspection, halted, stared in amazement at the broken glass and trickling beverage, got a whiff of the raw spirit, and blinked at Bradley, who, by this time, had reached the ground.
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Regan, nonplussed. "Not you, Bradley—on the run?"
Bradley did not answer. He was regarding the master mechanic with a half smile—not a pleasant one—more a defiant curl of his lips.
Smithers, discreetly attempting to make his escape through the opposite gangway, caught Regan's attention.
"Here, you, Smithers," Regan called peremptorily, "come——"
Then Bradley spoke, cutting in roughly.
"Leave Smithers out of it," he said.
Regan stared for another moment; then took a quick step forward, close up to Bradley—and got the fireman's breath.
Bradley shoved him away insolently.