ilk would be held for the present and the oranges
rushed through at once. Bright and early the refrigerator train was run
down to the icehouses, and twenty men were put to work icing the
oranges. At seven o'clock, McCurdy pulled in the local passenger with
engine 105. Our plan was to cancel the load and run him right out with
the oranges. When he got in, he reported that the 105 had sprung a tire;
this threw us out entirely. There was a hurried conference in the
round-house.

"What can you do?" asked the Superintendent in desperation.

"There's only one thing I can do. Put Bartholomew Mullen on it with the
44, and put McCurdy to bed for Number Two to-night," responded Neighbor.

It was eight o'clock. I looked into the locomotive stalls. The
first--the only--man in sight was Bartholomew Mullen. He was very busy
polishing the 44. He had good steam on her, and the old tub was wheezing
away as if she had the asthma. The 44 was old; she was homely; she was
rickety; but Bartholomew Mullen wiped her battered nose as deferentially
as if she had been a spick-span, spider-driver, tail-truck mail-racer.
She wasn't much--the 44. But in those days Bartholomew wasn't much:
and the 44 was Bartholomew's.

"How is she steaming, Bartholomew?" I sang out; he was right in the
middle of her. Looking up, he fingered his waste modestly and blushed
through a dab of crude-petroleum over his eye. "Hundred and thirty
pounds, sir. She's a terrible free steamer, the old 44. I'm all ready
to run her out."

"Who's marked up to fire for you, Bartholomew?"

Bartholomew Mullen looked at me fraternally. "Neighbor couldn't give me
anybody but a wiper, sir," said Bartholomew, in a sort of a
wouldn't-that-kill-you tone.

The unconscious arrogance of the boy quite knocked me: so soon had
honors changed his point of view. Last night a despised wiper; at
daybreak, an engineer; and his nose in the air at the idea of taking on
a wiper for fireman. And all so innocent.

"Would you object, Bartholomew," I suggested gently, "to a train-master
for fireman?"

"I don't--think so, sir."

"Thank you; because I am going down to Zanesville this morning myself,
and I thought I'd ride with you. Is it all right?"

"Oh, yes, sir--if Neighbor doesn't care."

I smiled: he didn't know whom Neighbor took orders from; but he thought,
evidently, not from me.

"Then run her down to the oranges, Bartholomew, and couple on, and we'll
order ourselves out. See?"

The