“We will steer him home as soon as we can, Johnny. He has enjoyed an exciting afternoon.”
The locomotive whistled and a few minutes later they filed into the smoking-car. O’Shea fished out a black cigar and his comrade rammed a charge of cut plug into his old clay pipe. No sooner had they lighted matches than their irresponsible protégé reached over and snatched them away. Instead of trying to set fire to the car or to the abundant whiskers of the old gentleman across the aisle he flung the matches on the floor and stamped them with his heel. His guardians regarded him with puzzled surprise, and were not quick enough to restrain him before he surged among the passengers and plucked from their faces every lighted cigar, cigarette, and pipe. These he rudely made way with by grinding them under his feet or tossing them through the windows.
The persons thus outraged were for assaulting him until they perceived the width of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, and the color of his hair. The shipmaster and the engineer tackled him like a brace of foot-ball players, yanked him back to his seat, and calmed the ruffled travellers with explanations and offers to pay damages. The blue eye of Bill Maguire was alertly roving to detect the first sign of smoke, and during the remainder of his journey no one dared to burn the hazy incense of tobacco.
“You’re a great man for theories, Cap’n Mike,” quoth the bewildered engineer. “Can you figger what’s happened to Bill?”
“I am on a lee shore this time, Johnny. I would call him a firebug no longer. He has turned himself into a fire department.”
“That’s precisely it,” excitedly cried the other. “And here’s how I explain it. He’s had some mighty violent experiences during the last twenty-four hours, what with your tryin’ to knock his head off and runnin’ him afoul of those Chinamen which is his pet aversion. His intellect has jarred a mite loose from its dead centre, but one cog slipped into reverse gear. In place of settin’ fires, he wants to put ’em out. His machinery ain’t adjusted right, but it’s movin’. Instead of starting ahead on this conflagration theory of his, he goes full speed astern.”
“You are a knowing old barnacle,” admiringly exclaimed O’Shea. “This ought to make Bill an easier problem to handle. The strain of keeping up with him begins to tell on me.”
“Pshaw, Cap’n Mike, I’ll set him to work on the farm if this latest spell sticks to him.”
They drove home from the village in the twilight. The Perkins boy had tarried to do the chores and kindle a fire for supper. He fled without his hat when the big, silent, red-haired stranger marched into the kitchen, halted to look at the blazing grate, and promptly caught up a pail of water from the sink and flooded the stove. Johnny Kent entered a moment later and gazed aghast at the dripping, sizzling embers. Then his common-sense got the better of his annoyance and he shouted to O’Shea:
“Bill’s gear is still reversed. Coax him out on the porch and hold him there while I get supper. He just put the stove awash.”