“Uncouple, then,” said Loch, curtly, “I want her.”
“Mr. Lewis in trouble, sir?”
“I’m going to see.” Loch spoke more curtly than ever, but his men knew him.
Hatch spoke persuasively. “You’d better have me to fire for you, sir. I’m off duty, and there hasn’t been no variosity, sir, so to say, for a month.”
Loch nodded. “All right. And bring your twelve-bore.”
Hatch beamed and fled. There were outcries and footsteps. Loch spent another five minutes thinking of the little boy who had grown into a young man, and who might have been peacefully and safely raising pineapples in Natal. He started, as Number eight swung on the switch and pulled up beside him, groaning in all her rivets, Hatch swinging joyously on the rickety footplate.
“Clear line for four hours, sir,” said Hatch.
“We shan’t need so much,” answered Loch; and Hatch, seeing his face, said no more, but went through silent movements of whistling.
They crawled out of Gondoko, clattering and banging. The open line lay before them, straight as a ruler between walls of forest, varied only by the paths of the woodcutters. Outside the radius of number eight’s headlight was a swinging, uncertain darkness. Loch steadily put the throttle over. And Hatch whistled again.
Presently, he had no time even to whistle. He was stoking furiously.