“I guess I’m used to this old route and I’d feel lost if I didn’t pass through the Little Town every few days.”
They were now approaching the Little Town, and Tim had not spoken since he left the city, a hundred miles back. He was naturally quiet, but the fireman had never known him to make the run before and not say something. Something told the fireman that Tim had struck sadness somewhere, and so at intervals he fired up but said nothing to the big, begrimed man in overalls and cap who stood silently at his post, with one hand always on the throttle of his engine.
“I’m goin’ to stop twenty minutes in the Little Town, Jim,” said Tim as they began to pull into the station.
“Any orders?” asked Jim, surprised.
“No, but it’s my orders—ever’ Easter—been doin’ it for twenty years. Company don’t like it, kin lump it,” Tim added dry.
This was Jim’s first year, and he had never heard.
“No. 3 may be late an’ give me the chance. If she don’t, why, we stops anyway, Jim.”
“Why, I’d rather she’d be on time, so we can go on. Don’t you want to go on?” asked Jim.
“Not for twenty minutes, ef I can he’p it. Fact is, we’re goin’ to stop here a little while anyway.”
The fireman said nothing, and Tim slowed up No. 496 in the yard. Then he jumped down and went in to report.