At that moment there was heard the whistle of the Scotch express.
"Your blood be on your own head," cried the president, yielding completely to temptation.
His fingers met round the young man's neck.
"My God!" he murmured, in a delirious ecstasy, "what a neck, what a neck!"
Just then his foot slipped.
He fell. Andrew jumped up and kicked him as hard as he could three times.
Then he leapt to the platform, and, flinging himself into the moving train, fell exhausted on the seat.
Andrew never thought so much of the president again. You cannot respect a man and kick him.