Then the Major volunteered some testimony for the defence. He said:
‘I saw it all. You gentlemen have not meant to exaggerate the circumstances, but still that is what you have done. The boy has done nothing more than all train-boys do. If you want to get his ways softened down and his manners reformed, I am with you and ready to help, but it isn’t fair to get him discharged without giving him a chance.’
But they were angry, and would hear of no compromise. They were well acquainted with the President of the Boston and Albany, they said, and would put everything aside next day and go up to Boston and fix that boy.
The Major said he would be on hand too, and would do what he could to save the boy. One of the gentlemen looked him over and said:
‘Apparently it is going to be a matter of who can wield the most influence with the President. Do you know Mr. Bliss personally?’
The Major said, with composure:
‘Yes; he is my uncle.’
The effect was satisfactory. There was an awkward silence for a minute or more; then the hedging and the half-confessions of over-haste and exaggerated resentment began, and soon everything was smooth and friendly and sociable, and it was resolved to drop the matter and leave the boy’s bread and butter unmolested.
It turned out as I had expected: the President of the road was not the Major’s uncle at all—except by adoption, and for this day and train only.
We got into no episodes on the return journey. Probably it was because we took a night train and slept all the way.