Mr. Bridge sat upon his table and said nothing. When taken by surprise Mr.

Bridge usually said nothing; that is why he had risen to the leadership of a faction.

"I don't know just what's happened," Jim went on, "but there's trouble ahead."

"Does Blaney say he's going to vote against you?"

"No," said Jim, "but he gave himself away."

"Can you block him?"

Jim pa.s.sed over the question.

"I wish you'd watch him, Bridge. There's a deal on, and Frederick McNally is the other party. He's for C. & S.C. of course. Do you know him?"

Bridge shook his head.

"Well, never mind. I'll watch him. But you worry Blaney. He's a little rattled now,--I reckon McNally's soaked him,--and if you're careful you ought to find out something. I want to know just how they've fixed it."

Bridge nodded.

"I'll keep an eye on him."

"Well,"--Jim rose,--"I've got a train to catch. Good-by."

He drove rapidly to the station; the agent hurried toward him as he pulled up at the platform.

"I only got your message this minute, Mr. Weeks," he said; "there isn't a car in the yards."

"What's that?" Jim looked at his watch. "Got an engine?"

"Only the switch engine."

"I'll take that."

The agent hesitated.

"You wouldn't get through before next week," he said. "There's a couple of pa.s.senger engines in the roundhouse, but they ain't fired."

The telegraph operator leaned out of the window and broke into the conversation.

"Murphy's firing the big eleven for sixteen from Truesdale. You might take that."

"Got a good man to run it?" asked Jim.

"Jawn Donohue's on the switch engine," replied the operator. "He knows the road."

Jim dimly remembered the name Donohue. Somewhat more than a year before his manager had reduced a man of that name for crippling an engine on a flying switch.

"He's the best man you could get, Mr. Weeks," said the agent, and turning, he ran down the platform toward the freight house. Jim called after him:--

"He's got to connect at Manchester with the twelve o'clock for Chicago."

Jawn's dumpy little engine was blowing off on a siding. Jawn was oiling.

He was a short man, filling out his wide overalls with an in-'em-to-stay appearance. His beard was brushy, his eyes were lost in a gray tangle of brows and lashes, and he chewed the stem of a cob pipe.

"Jawn," said the agent, excitedly, "get eleven up to the platform quick!"

Jawn turned around, lowered the oil-can, and looked at the nervous agent with impa.s.sive eyes.

"Why?" he said slowly.

"You've got to connect with Manchester at twelve o'clock."

Jawn replaced his pipe.

"Wait till I kick them empties in on the house track. Who's it for?"

"Don't stop for that! It's the President!"

Jawn grunted, and walked deliberately across the tracks and into the roundhouse, followed by his fireman. Murphy, the hostler, was hovering about the big throbbing locomotive, putting a final polish on the oil-cups and piston-rods. Jawn, without a word, climbed into the cab, and out over the tender, where he lifted the tank lid and peered down at the water.

"Never mind that," the agent called. "You can water up at Byron."

Jawn slowly clambered over the coal and leaned against the doorway, packing the tobacco firmly into his pipe with his fire-proof little finger.

"Young man," he said gruffly, "I run this engine for four years without taking water between here and Manchester, and I reckon I can do it agin."

Then he pulled her slowly out of the roundhouse.

In the meantime, the operator had sent this message to the train despatcher at Manchester:--

Want right of way over everything. Pres. coming on light engine.

To which the despatcher replied:--

Run to Manchester extra regardless of all trains.

When the engine finally rolled into the station Jim was pacing up and down; he was as nearly impatient as Jim Weeks could be.

"You'll have to move faster than that," he said shortly, swinging himself up the steps.

Jawn glanced at him without reply, then looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes after ten. He laid his hand upon the throttle and pulled. There was a gasp of steam, a whirring and slipping of the drive wheels, and the engine plunged forward. Jawn fingered the lever with a lover's caress. He knew old "eleven," every foot of her, every tube, bolt, and strap. As they cleared the yards, he threw her wider and wider open until she was lunging and lurching madly. The cinders beat a tattoo upon the cab, and Jim Weeks crowded up into the corner. The fireman, a strapping young fellow, threw in great shovels of coal with the regularity of a machine, pausing only to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand as the heat grew intense. When he opened the furnace door, Jim could see the glowing bed lift and stir with the jolt of the engine.

Old Jawn, perched upon his high seat, never shifted his eyes from the track ahead. His face wore the usual scowl, but betrayed no emotion.

Perhaps his teeth gripped the pipe-stem harder than usual, but then, it was a pregnant hour for Jawn. The feel of the old pet under his hand made his heart jump, and brought the hope that a successful run might lead him back to his own. Jawn knew that he deserved something better than a switch engine in the division yards, he knew that he was the best engineer on the road, but he had steeled himself against hope. As they whirled past the mile-posts his emotion grew. He felt that the President was watching him closely, and he coaxed the steel thing into terrific speed. The cab grew hotter and hotter. Jim loosened his grip on the seat long enough to unb.u.t.ton his collar and to twist his handkerchief around his neck. The fireman was dripping, but Jawn sat immovable as marble. They whirled past little stations with a sudden roar. At Brushingham a pa.s.senger train lay on the siding. There was a mottled flash of yellow, then they were by, and for an instant Jawn smiled. He hadn't pa.s.sed Jack Martin like that for years.

Then they struck the hills. Up with a snort, over with a groan, and down with a rumble and slide, they flew. Here Jawn's eyes shifted to the water gauge. Jim locked one arm around the window post, and sat with eyes fixed on his watch. The minute hand crept around to eleven, pa.s.sed it, and on to five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. At thirty-five cl.u.s.ters of cottages began to shoot by. Jawn's arm began to straighten--the roar diminished a trifle. Thirty-seven they pa.s.sed rows of coal-laden flat cars; thirty-nine, they slackened through a tangle of tracks; forty-one, the big engine rolled under the train shed and stopped in a cloud of steam.

Jim stepped down and stretched himself. The fireman had staggered back into the tender, and lay in a heap, fanning himself with his cap. Jawn took a final glance at the water gauge, then he swung around and removed his cold pipe.