“I'll take that.”
The agent hesitated.
“You wouldn't get through before next week,” he said. “There's a couple of passenger engines in the roundhouse, but they ain't fired.”
The telegraph operator leaned out of the window and broke into the conversation.
“Murphy's firing the big eleven for sixteen from Truesdale. You might take that.”
“Got a good man to run it?” asked Jim.
“Jawn Donohue's on the switch engine,” replied the operator. “He knows the road.”
Jim dimly remembered the name Donohue. Somewhat more than a year before his manager had reduced a man of that name for crippling an engine on a flying switch.
“He's the best man you could get, Mr. Weeks,” said the agent, and turning, he ran down the platform toward the freight house. Jim called after him:—
“He's got to connect at Manchester with the twelve o'clock for Chicago.”