“Unwind her, and run to the other end!” he ordered. “You needn't hang around my cab all night. I haven't a drop to drink.”
“All right, Cap,” and, jumping from car to car on the foot-boards overhead, the brakeman disappeared in the cloud of steam and smoke which the locomotive was belching forth.
“Hello, Jack!” Walton came forward.
“Hello! Good Lord, Fred, what are you doing down here this time of night? I thought you fellows had a game on every Sunday. I was just wishing I had enough boodle ahead to lay over and walk away with some Stafford coin. I want to get even for the last hold-up you blacklegs gave me.”
“I'm dead broke, Jack, old man,” Walton said, avoiding the eyes of his friend. “I want to get to Atlanta before the morning train, and I wondered—”
“If I'd take you? Of course I will. I'm sorry to hear you are broke, though, for we might pass the time with a game. It's down-grade,” he laughed, impulsively; “we might turn old No. 12 over to the fireman, and get the engineer and brakeman to come in and try a round.”
“I wouldn't trust myself with three railroad men,” Walton tried to jest, “even if I hadn't sworn off.”
“What! again? Oh, that is a joke!” Thomas laughed. “You Stafford chaps say you swear off, then practice night and day, and stick it to the first galoot that comes along. Oh, I am on!” There was a sound of rushing water from the tank ahead. In the dim light in the locomotive they could see the fireman on the tender astride of the swinging pipe.
“I'm glad you will take me along, Jack,” Walton replied. “I want to get to Atlanta, and haven't a cent on earth. The truth is, I am in bad shape.”
“I've heard you sing that song before,” the conductor replied, with an incredulous smile. He raised his lantern till the yellow light fell on Walton's face, and he stared in astonishment. “Why, really, you do look kind o' bunged up. What's the matter, old chap?”