Part 40 (2/2)

And then Bradley laughed--queerly.

”You're a d.a.m.n fool, Smithers!” he flung out, with a savage jeer.

”What do you know about it!” And throwing the engineer's arm from him, his shovel clanged and clanged again, as into the red maw before him he shot the coal.

Smithers was scared. Bradley never said another word after that--just kept to his own side of the cab, hugging his seat, staring through the cab gla.s.s ahead, chin down on his breast, pulling the door at intervals, firing at intervals like an automaton, then back to his seat again. Smithers was scared.

At Elk River, the end of the local run, Smithers told the train crew about it, and they laughed at him, and looked around to find out what Martin Bradley had to say about it--but Bradley wasn't in sight.

Not much of a place, Elk River, not big enough for one to go anywhere without the whole population knowing it; and it wasn't long before they knew where Bradley was. The local made a two hours' lay-over there before starting back for Big Cloud; and Martin Bradley spent most of it in Kelly's place, a stone's throw from, the station. Not drinking much, a gla.s.s or two all told, sitting most of the time staring out of the window--not drinking much--getting the _taste_ of it that he hadn't known for a matter of many years. Two gla.s.ses, perhaps three, that was all--but he left Kelly's for the run back with a flask in his pocket.

It was the flask that did it, not Smithers. Smithers was frightened at his silent fireman tippling over his shovel, good and frightened before he got to Big Cloud, and Smithers did not understand; but Smithers, for all that, wasn't the man to throw a mate down cold. Neither was Bradley himself bad enough to have aroused any suspicion. It was the flask that did it.

They made Big Cloud on the dot that morning--11.26. And in the roundhouse, as Bradley stepped out through the gangway, his overalls caught on the hasp of the tool-box on the tender, and the jerk sent the flask flying into splinters on the floor--at Regan's feet.

The fat little master mechanic, on his morning round of inspection, halted, stared in amazement at the broken gla.s.s and trickling beverage, got a whiff of the raw spirit, and blinked at Bradley, who, by this time, had reached the ground.

”What's the meaning of this?” demanded Regan, nonplussed. ”Not you, Bradley--on the run?”

Bradley did not answer. He was regarding the master mechanic with a half smile--not a pleasant one--more a defiant curl of his lips.

Smithers, discreetly attempting to make his escape through the opposite gangway, caught Regan's attention.

”Here, you, Smithers,” Regan called peremptorily, ”come----”

Then Bradley spoke, cutting in roughly.

”Leave Smithers out of it,” he said.

Regan stared for another moment; then took a quick step forward, close up to Bradley--and got the fireman's breath.

Bradley shoved him away insolently.

It was a minute before Regan spoke. He liked Bradley and always had; but from the soles of his feet up to the crown of his head, Regan, first and last, was a railroad man. And Regan knew but one creed.

Other men might drink and play the fool and be forgiven and trusted again, a wiper, a shop hand, a brakeman, perhaps, or any one of the train crew, but a man in the cab of an engine--_never_. Reasons, excuses, contributory causes, counted not at all--they were not asked for--they did not exist. The fact alone stood--as the fact. It was a minute before Regan spoke, and then he didn't say much, just a word or two without raising his voice, before he turned on his heel and walked out of the roundhouse.

”I'm sorry for this, Bradley,” he said. ”You're the last man I expected it from. You know the rules. You've fired your last run on this road. You're out.”

But Regan might have been making some comment on the weather for all the concern it appeared to give Bradley. He stood leaning against the tender, snapping his fingers in his queer way, silent, hard-faced, his eyes far away from his immediate surroundings. Smithers, a wiper or two, Reddy MacQuigan amongst them, cl.u.s.tered around him after Regan had gone; but Bradley paid no attention to them, answered none of their questions or comments; and after a little while pushed himself through them and went out of the roundhouse.

Bradley didn't go home that day; but Reddy MacQuigan did--at the noon hour. That's how Mrs. MacQuigan got it. Mrs. MacQuigan did not wait to wash up the dishes. She put on the little old-fas.h.i.+oned poke bonnet that she had worn for as many seasons as Big Cloud could remember, and started out to find Regan. She ran the master mechanic to earth on the station platform, and opened up on him, fluttering, anxious, and distressed.

”Sure, Regan,” she faltered, ”you did not mean it when you fired Martin this morning--not for good.”

Regan pulled at his mustache and looked at her--and shook his head at her reprovingly.

”I meant it, Mrs. MacQuigan,” he said kindly. ”You must know that. It will do neither of us any good to talk about it. I wouldn't have let him out if I could have helped it.”

”Then listen here, Regan,” she pleaded. ”Listen to the why of it, that 'tis only me who knows.”

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