Part 6 (1/2)

”We stop here a little while, don't we?” she asked of Brockway.

”Yes; twenty minutes or more. Would you like to go out for a breath of fresh air?” She had risen and caught up her wrap and hat.

”I should; it is just what I was going to propose. Cousin Jeannette, I'm going to walk on the platform with Mr. Brockway. Come,” she said; and they escaped before Mr. Vennor could overtake them.

Once outside, they paced up and down under the windows of the train, chatting reminiscently of four bright days a year agone, and shunning the intervening period as two people will whose lives have met and touched and gone apart again. At the second turn, they met Mrs. Dunham and Fleetwell; and at the third, the President, sandwiched between Hannah and Priscilla Beaswicke. Whereupon Brockway, scenting espionage, drew Gertrude away toward the engine.

The great, black bulk of the heavy ten-wheeler loomed portentous, and the smoky flare of the engineer's torch, as he thrust it into the machinery to guide the snout of his oil-can, threw the overhanging ma.s.s of iron and steel into sombre relief.

Brockway shaded his eyes under his hand and peered up at the number beneath the cab window. ”The new 926,” he said; ”we'll get back some of our lost time behind her.”

”Do you know them all by name?” Gertrude queried.

”Oh, no; not all.”

”I suppose you've ridden on them many times?”

Brockway laughed. ”I should say I had--on both sides, as the enginemen say.”

”What does that mean?”

”It's slang for firing and driving; I've done a little of both, you know.”

”I didn't know it. Isn't it terribly dangerous? When anything happens, the men on the engine are almost always killed, aren't they?”

”When they are it's because they haven't time to save themselves. It's all nonsense--newspaper nonsense, mostly--about the engineer sticking to his post like the boy on the burning deck. A man can do whatever there is to be done toward stopping his train while you could count ten, and no amount of heroism could accomplish any more.”

”I have often thought I should like to ride on an engine,” Gertrude said.

”I wish I had known it earlier in the day; your wish might have been gratified very easily.”

”Might it? I suppose they never let any one ride on the night engines, do they?”

Brockway caught his breath. ”Do you mean--would you trust me to take you on the engine to-night?” he asked, wondering if he had heard aright.

”Why not?” she said, with sweet gravity.

The engineer had oiled his way around to their side, and Brockway spoke to him.

”Good-evening, Mac,” he said; and the man turned and held up his torch.

”h.e.l.lo, Fred,” he began; and then, seeing Gertrude: ”Excuse _me_, I didn't see the lady.”

At a sign from Gertrude, Brockway introduced the engineer. ”Miss Vennor, this is Mr. Maclure--one of our oldest runners.”

”I'm very glad to know you, Mr. Maclure,” said Gertrude, sweetly; and the man of machinery sc.r.a.ped his feet and salaamed.

”Mac, Miss Vennor thinks she would like to take a night spin on the 926.

May we ride a little way with you?”