“He's always tinkering.”
“Well, he's done tinkering for us, unless I land in a ditch to-night, with the tender on top of me.”
A purring sound issued from the squat throat of the engine. It was sending aloft wreaths of light gray smoke and softly spitting red-hot cinders.
Dan climbed upon the tender and inspected the tank. Last of all he went forward and lit the headlight, and his preparations were complete. He jumped down from the cab, and stood beside Joe on the platform.
“Now,” he said, cheerfully, “where's that fireman, Joe?”
“He's gone home, Mr. Oakley. He lives at Car-son, too, same as Baker,” faltered the operator.
“Then there's another man whose services we won't require in future. We'll have to find some one else.”
“I don't think you can,” ventured Durks, reluctantly. Instinct told him that this opinion would not tend to increase his popularity with Oakley.
“Why not?”
“They just won't want to go.”