s to mend this."
She picked up the brown-paper parcel from among the coals and undid the
string with hot, red fingers that trembled.

Her feet and legs felt the scorch of the engine fire, but her shoulders
felt the wild chill rush of the air. The engine lurched and shook and
rattled, and as they shot under a bridge the engine seemed to shout in
her ears.

The fireman shovelled on coals.

Bobbie unrolled the brown paper and disclosed the toy engine.

"I thought," she said wistfully, "that perhaps you'd mend this for
me--because you're an engineer, you know."

The engine-driver said he was blowed if he wasn't blest.

"I'm blest if I ain't blowed," remarked the fireman.

But the engine-driver took the little engine and looked at it--and the
fireman ceased for an instant to shovel coal, and looked, too.

"It's like your precious cheek," said the engine-driver--"whatever made
you think we'd be bothered tinkering penny toys?"

"I didn't mean it for precious cheek," said Bobbie; "only everybody that
has anything to do with railways is so kind and good, I didn't think
you'd mind. You don't really--do you?" she added, for she had seen a not
unkindly wink pass between the two.

"My trade's driving of an engine, not mending her, especially such a
hout-size in engines as this 'ere," said Bill. "An' 'ow are we a-goin'
to get you back to your sorrowing friends and relations, and all be
forgiven and forgotten?"

"If you'll put me down next time you stop," said Bobbie, firmly, though
her heart beat fiercely against her arm as she clasped her hands, "and
lend me the money for a third-class ticket, I'll pay you back--honour
bright. I'm not a confidence trick like in the newspapers--really, I'm
not."

"You're a little lady, every inch," said Bill, relenting suddenly
and completely. "We'll see you gets home safe. An' about this
engine--Jim--ain't you got ne'er a pal as can use a soldering iron?
Seems to me that's about all the little bounder wants doing to it."

"That's what Father said," Bobbie explained eagerly. "What's that for?"

She pointed to a little brass wheel that he had turned as he spoke.

"That's the injector."

"In--what?"

"Injector to fill up the boiler."

"Oh," said Bobbie, mentally registering the fact to tell the others;
"that IS interesting."

"This 'ere's the automatic brake," Bill went on, flattered by her
enthusiasm. "You just move this 'ere little handle--do it with one
finger, you can--and