The young man glanced quickly toward the engine that puffed and chugged at the head of the little train. He helped Simeon into the car and hurried forward. The man standing by the engine looked at him with troubled eyes.
“He’s sick,” he said slowly, as John came up. “He was took bad just after he came down.” He nodded toward the baggage room, “He told me to fire Up—ready to go ahead. Said you’d know what to do.”
The young man turned toward the baggage room. The engineer, out of a heap of blankets, spread across some trunks, regarded him somberly. “I can’t do it,” he said, “I don’t dare. It gripes too hard when it comes. It’s easier now, for a minute—But it ’ll come back.” He writhed a little as he spoke.
“You must n’t stay here,” said John quickly. He looked about him.
The man put out a hand. “I’m going,” he said, “as soon as she starts. I waited for you.” John nodded. “Is there anyone—on the others?” He motioned toward the yard.
The man shook his head gloomily—“Freights,” he said. A kind of subtle pride underran the words—“I would n’t trust ’em with Her.”
The young man lifted his head—A swift thought had crossed his face. “I saw Tomlinson on the street as we drove in—Could he-?”
The man stared at him—“Old Tomlinson?” Justice weighed in the tone. “You can ask him,” he said grudgingly at last.
“He ’s all right for it?” questioned John.
The man writhed a little in his place. But justice held—“He’s all right if he says so,” he answered. His teeth bit at the under lip, holding it firm, and he breathed hard. “He’s first-class—Tomlinson. He won’t say he can take her unless he’s able. You can trust Tomlinson—same as you would me.” The pride of brotherhood breathed in the words—lifting them mightily.