“Guess your friend the engineer is no better than the rest of us,” one of them jeered at Gordon. “He couldn’t keep it up.”
“Drunk again, probably,” jeered another.
“Maybe it’s only a little lovers’ tiff,” I argued in Gordon’s support.
“I’m going to find out,” Gordon finished the discussion.
And he did. Made a special errand to the village to find out. And returned with a smile.
“They’re married,” he reported. “Off on their honeymoon. They’ll be back in a week. Watch for the signal then.”
He was right. In a week the signal was resumed, but in another place.
“How’s that?” one of the men still girded at Gordon. “Guess he’s learned to respect his wife’s throwing arm. He pipes up now from a more respectful distance.”
“That’s easy,” Gordon let the caviller down gently. “He’s set her up in a little house farther along the line. Naturally that’s where he would whistle now.”
For three weeks more we heard the faithful signal, at its new place. A little more faintly, but always punctual, always the same. And again the men began to whistle at their work.