John waited a minute. His slow mind did not find words to speak to the haggard face. “I’m going down to see him,” said the man. “The president!”.
He nodded slowly and solemnly. “They say he ’s a hard man. But he shall hear it to his face—what I ’ve got to say!”
“You ’re going to ask him for work?”
“I ’ve asked it—three times. I ’ll ask it four times,” said the man. “And after that I ’ll curse him.”
The boy made a quick motion.
The old face lifted itself, with a tragic look, toward the car. “Is there aught a man can do?” he demanded. “They ’ve shook the strength out of me for forty year on the road.... They ’ll not take it from me! ... They ’ve drove me up and down—cold and rain—wind that cut my in’ards—till I ’m fit for naught but the switch.... They ’ll not take it from me!” It was a solemn cry.
The boy listened to it, for a moment, as it died away. The train roared its echo mockingly. He reached out a hand and laid it on the rough knee. “Don’t go down today, Tomlinson,” he said slowly. “I want to see him first.”
The old man stared at him with grim eyes. “Ye think ye can help me with him?” he asked sharply.
“I know I can. But you must wait. I have my mother to look after. I can’t be at the office—yet. Wait till I ’m there. You take the next train back and I ’ll write you.”
“I ’ll not go back,” said the old man slowly, “I ’ll not face Ellen without news—good or bad. But I ’ll stop off to my daughter’s—in Hudson. Ye can write me there and I ’ll come.”