John was sorting the papers, a half-smile on his slow lips. A sense of happiness held his stubby fingers.
The president’s eyes rested on the dull face for a long minute. His hand, holding the paper, had ceased to tremble. He was resting in the strength of this body, short and sturdy and full of willing life. No one knew what that stubby-fingered boy had meant to him—what plans for the future had been cut off. The boy was to have been closer than a partner for him, closer than his own body, through the years. He was to have lived with him—shared his fortune, good and bad.... No one had guessed. He himself had not quite known—until, one day, the door closed behind the boy and he found himself sitting before a desk, trying with trembling fingers to make an entry in the ledger.... He had worried along since then as best he could.... And now he was sitting in the quiet car with the boy opposite him. The freight outside was pulling away with slow, disturbed puffs. The low sun shone through the car, and a glow of red plush lifted itself about them and filled the car with clear, rosy light.
The boy looked up. His eyes met the watching ones, and a quick light flashed into them, touching the lamps of service to flame. “This is the next one, sir.” He looked down again at the papers and held one out.
The president pushed it aside with a touch. His eyes searched the boy’s face. “Tell me what happened—just now!”
“Just now—!” The boy looked up, waiting, his lips half apart.
The president nodded. “You know—When we stopped—What was wrong!”
The boy waited a minute. “No. 39 had your track,” he said at last, quietly. “She’s gone now. That’s her whistle—up the yard.” He turned his head a little.
The president’s eyes still scanned the dull face. “And you changed the switch!”
“Yes, sir.”
The president pushed the papers farther from him, making a place for both arms on the table. He leaned forward a little. “So that’s what you left me for?”