“There’s no one like her,” said John. “I could n’t tell you. Nobody could tell about Mother.” His glance had traveled to the rack overhead where the fragrant boughs hung out, filling the air with light fragrance—He saw the light in her face and her hands held out to them—He smiled.
Simeon sighed and moved restlessly. He held another match to the cigar and his eye, as it followed the steady hand, filled with quick pride.
John was watching the hand, too, and the eyes of the two men met.
“I ’m all right,” said Simeon, throwing away the match with a little laugh.
“You ’re all right,” said John with deeper meaning.
“And I ’m a young man.” He rose and paced a few steps in the car—“I ’m forty-three—You don’t call that old?”
The eyes watching him smiled.
“That is not old,” said Simeon. He stretched himself to his full height, rapping his chest softly. He threw out his arm—toward the night. “I’m just beginning,” he said.
The brakeman passed through the car-carrying something on his arm. A piece of old cloth, a bit of signal flag, was thrown carelessly across it.
John’s eye followed him to the rear of the car. After a minute he got up and went to the door. He opened it and stepped onto the platform. The brakeman was bending over the end of the car, peering down at something. He tested it once or twice with his hand before he scrambled to his feet. “It ’s the red,” he said as he saw who stood beside him. “It don’t burn right—”