"I know that, father, and that is why I wanted to know what to say to the superintendent."
"I have told you all you need to say, and more, unless you are asked."
"All right, sir. I—I hope you will have good luck, father, and—good-by."
Mr. Kendall seemed not to have heard the parting wish of his son; he certainly did not return the good-by. And mingled with the feeling of satisfaction at being intrusted with the care of the great engine was a sensation of vague uneasiness on account of his father's singular behavior.
The fireman was there before him, waiting to be let into the boiler-room, for the engineer always kept the keys.
He was a big, brawny Yorkshire Englishman, with a scar across one cheek, and, to add to the ugliness of his face, he had only one good eye. Over the other he always wore a green patch.
"Hi, my lad, is thy feyther sick?" was Joe Cuttle's salutation as Larry unlocked the door, and they went into the long boiler-room.
"No, sir," was the reply, remembering his father's wish that he say, nothing about the matter except to the superintendent.
"I'm a little late," he continued, as he glanced at the steam gauges; "so you will have to put on the draught and get up steam fast as you can."
"All right, Larry. I was waiting for thee this ten minutes," said Cuttle.