Rosie, busied in the kitchen over the supper dishes, always knew just when this call was coming, and always had her answer ready: "All right, Dad. Just wait till I dry my hands and I will."
Tonight she gave the usual answer in the usual cheerful tone, for she felt that it behooved her to meet deceit with deceit if she was to catch the beast unaware. So she got Jamie his pipe, and later came out again and perched on the arm of his chair.
"Say, Dad," she began.
She took a peep at him from the corner of her eye. Heaven knows he did not look fierce. He was a plain, lean, little man, of indeterminate colouring, with sparse hair, sparser mustache, and faded blue eyes, that had a patient, far-away look in them. His face was thin and worn, with lines that betokened years of labour borne steadily and without complaint. He was a silent man and passed for thoughtful, though contemplative would better express his cast of mind. He looked at things and people slowly and quietly, as if considering them carefully before committing himself. Then, when he spoke, it would be some slight remark, brief and commonplace.
When Rosie began: "Say Dad," he waited patiently. After several seconds had elapsed, he turned his head slightly and said: "Well, Rosie?"
He gave her a faint smile, and patted her hand affectionately. Ordinarily, at this place, Rosie would have slipped an arm about his neck, but tonight she held back.
"Say, Dad," she opened again, in a coaxing, confidential tone, "did you have a good run today?"
The world in general supposes, no doubt, that, to a motorman, one day's run must be much like any other. Rosie knew better.
Jamie very deliberately relit his pipe before answering. Then he said: "Yes, it was all right, Rosie."
Rosie waited, as she knew from his manner that something more would finally come. Jamie gazed about thoughtfully, then concluded: "They was a flat wheel on the rear truck."