Back in the car, Simeon Tetlow, absorbed in his map, looked up absently ... his glance on the swaying lamps—“They ’re taking us down pretty fast,” he said.
The young man nodded. He was sitting across the table, his head Testing on his hand, his eyes, with their quiet light, fixed on Simeon’s face. He had not stirred since he came in from the platform ten minutes ago.
Simeon, working on his map, looked up now and then with a little smile, and the quiet eyes smiled back. But something hungry had crept into them—a look of protection and longing—as if they would shield something helpless.
The train, in its heavy swing, lurched a little and Simeon looked up with a scowl that was half a laugh. The pencil had scrawled a curious, zigzag course across the paper. “I don’t seem to be running this road,” he said, “I might as well give up.” He pushed the map from him and looked at his watch—“9:40—Where are ye?”
“Just past Dunlop’s crossing,” said John..... At nine-forty, 86 was due at the crossing—the time-table in his pocket told it to him—five minutes off. Someone had blundered and she was in their block—close behind them—pressing upon them.... But the dull face gave no sign.
“Twenty minutes,” said Simeon. He stretched his arms with a little yawn—“We ’ll be in by ten—you think!”
“I think we shall be in before ten,” said the boy. His voice was very quiet, but the man looked up and saw the light in the eyes.
He leaned forward. “What is it, John?”
“Nothing, sir—” He said the words slowly. “I was only wishing I could do something for you.”
“Why, Boy—” He turned his head a little, listening—The shrill whistle had sounded—“What’s that!”