Jawn's dumpy little engine was blowing off on a siding. Jawn was oiling. He was a short man, filling out his wide overalls with an in-'em-to-stay appearance. His beard was brushy, his eyes were lost in a gray tangle of brows and lashes, and he chewed the stem of a cob pipe.
“Jawn,” said the agent, excitedly, “get eleven up to the platform quick!”
Jawn turned around, lowered the oil-can, and looked at the nervous agent with impassive eyes.
“Why?” he said slowly.
“You've got to connect with Manchester at twelve o'clock.”
Jawn replaced his pipe.
“Wait till I kick them empties in on the house track. Who's it for?”
“Don't stop for that! It's the President!”
Jawn grunted, and walked deliberately across the tracks and into the roundhouse, followed by his fireman. Murphy, the hostler, was hovering about the big throbbing locomotive, putting a final polish on the oil-cups and piston-rods. Jawn, without a word, climbed into the cab, and out over the tender, where he lifted the tank lid and peered down at the water.
“Never mind that,” the agent called. “You can water up at Byron.”