“It was fine fun when we first began to dig, and lay rails, but we have all got about enough of it.”
“I will speak to the major about it.”
“Don’t say anything to-day,” interposed Faxon. “The students are vexed because they were not allowed to have a good time this afternoon; but the major is going to have a great picnic at Sandy Shore next week, and he is in a hurry to have the road built to that point—two miles beyond Spangleport.”
“There is only one mile more to build, and if the fellows stick to it they will get it done.”
“But they say they won’t work another day,” replied Faxon.
Middleport was not paradise any more than Centreport. Boys were just as foolish and just as willing to get into a scrape, on one side as the other. The Toppletonians had insisted upon doing the work of building the road, and then purposed to rebel because they were required to do it. I had heard of the grand picnic which was to take place on the occasion of the birthday of Miss Grace Toppleton. The grove by the Sandy Shore could be reached most conveniently by the railroad, and the major’s anxiety to have the rails laid to that point had induced him to drive the work, instead of giving the students a chance to have a good time with the dummy, as they had desired to do while it was a new thing.
We ran into the engine-house, and some of the boys forced their way into my quarters, in spite of my protest. I saw a couple of them studying the machinery with deep interest. They asked me some questions; and supposing they were only gratifying a reasonable curiosity, I gave them all the information they needed, telling them just how to manage the engine.
“Pooh! I can do that as well as anybody,” said Briscoe, as he jumped down.
“Of course you can,” replied one of his companions.
“Don’t you think I could run her, Wolf?” asked Briscoe. “I am one of the engineers of the road, and I ought to know how.”