THE next morning a new lock was on the office door and the key lay on the president’s desk when he came in. He glanced at it sharply. “What’s that?”

“I ’ve had a new lock put on; the old one was never very good,” said the boy.

The man took up the key and slipped it on to his key-ring without comment. A hundred times a day the boy did things without consulting him. If he saw any special significance in this new caution, his face gave no sign and his hand, as it slipped the ring into his pocket, trembled no more than usual. But his glance, as it fell on the boy through the day, held a quiet content.

Just how wrong things had been going for the last few weeks only the president of the road knew. It seemed almost as if there were a concerted plan to harrow him—some hidden power, that chose maliciously his weakest spot, at the moment when he was most off his guard. Yet he could never lay his finger on a thing or a person that proved it. He only felt, helplessly enmeshed by circumstance—he, who had always driven others, chuckling at their discomfiture! But with the boy to help—Ah, what could he not do—with the boy! His face lost its driven look. The new awnings shaded the glare from the windows. It was almost comfortable in the little office.

As for the boy, he was watching over Simeon with new care. Not only did what he had seen the night before make him cautious, but Simeon’s whole attitude troubled him. There was something about the man—broken, hesitant—that had never been there before. He had always been nervous, crabbed, but not like this. It was as if the spring had snapped—or weakened helplessly under the long strain. One could not tell, at any moment, whether it would respond to the demands made on it. Now and then he recovered himself and spoke and acted like his old self. But again he would relapse into uncertainty, a kind of vague fretfulness and indecision, more trying than open collapse. It was when he spoke of the road and its future that he grew most like himself. ... Quietly the boy took it in—his change of purpose—and his heart moved to it in gentle understanding. Little by little, Simeon revealed himself—a word here, a word there—never by full explanation—watching all the time the thought reflected in the boy’s eyes, and strengthening his courage in the clear look as it grew and deepened.

The boy threw himself into the work, body and soul. It was good to be in the stir of things once more. He liked to feel the steady pound of the engine under him, as it drove to its work—to see the clear track and the shining country.... He drew his breath full and deep, and worked night and day, righting the things that had gone wrong, gathering details into his hands.

Simeon Tetlow could plan an edifice that in a night should overtop the world. But even while he planned, he let slip a myriad details—things that fluttered and fell and went wrong and threatened the structure at its proudest foment. The boy gathered them up one by one, little things of no account, things too minute for Simeon’s notice—and held them fast.

The office felt the change. The road felt it—vaguely. There was the same driving power in the little office, high up in the roof, but steadied and controlled—less smoke and wrath and ringing of bells in the orders that came down from the office and a freer, heavier swing to the big engine as it took the track.

It was absorbing work, and two weeks went by before the boy saw a chance to break away. There had been letters from his mother every day, full of detail—pictures of Caleb packing the dishes with clumsy fingers, or clearing out the cellar, happy and important, in spite of the parting from the squashes. John had smiled as he read the letters, but he had caught the note of courage beneath and sent it back to her full of cheer.... The moving would not be hard—with all that father had been doing. Three days would be enough for everything and he had their new home ready for them, a little house—seven rooms with a garden stretching to the side and back, for Caleb to dig in.

“I can raise a few things this year,” Caleb had said when he heard it—“Lettuce and parsley and reddishes, maybe. And next year we ’ll have a real garden. I’m going to take up some roots of daffydils and some jonquils and a stalk of that flowering shrub by the walk.”

He was occupied with this new hope when John arrived—pottering about with hoe and trowel—and they left him to his garden, while inside the house John tied up furniture and packed boxes, with watchful eye upon his mother that she should not overtax her strength before the journey. She had been a little restless the first day of his homecoming, going from room to room with long pauses for rest—a kind of slow pilgrimage—touching the familiar things softly, her thin hands lingering on them as if she might not see them again in the new home.

The boy watched a little anxiously. But her face was still and her eyes smiling when they met his, and after the first day she sat with him while he packed, talking of their new home and his work, and when the carriage left the house, she did not look back—her eyes were on the boy’s face.

It had been arranged that they should travel in the baggage-car. Simeon had spoken gruffly of the special and John had refused it, and she herself had chosen the baggage-car. “It will interest me, I think,” she said. There was a free space about her steamer-chair and through the partly-open door that framed a great picture a fresh breeze blew in, stirring her hair and bringing a clear color to her cheeks. Her eyes were like stars, looking out on the fields, and she grew like a child with the miles. John’s heart lightened as he watched her. What a thing of courage she was! Sheer courage. Just a frail body to give it foothold on the earth. The boy could not have said it, but he felt it—through every dull fiber—the courage that he could never match, but that had been before every day of life.... He need not have feared the journey for her—She made holiday of it!

After a little he left her and went forward. He had seen a man sitting at the farther end of the car, bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze on the floor of the car.

He did not look up as John paused beside him, and the boy seated himself on a box.

After a time he looked up. “You ’re taking her to the Port?” He nodded toward the steamer-chair.

“We ’re all going down.”

“I heerd it,” said the man. He relapsed into silence. The train thundered on with hoarse stops and fierce quickening of power as it left the stations behind.

The man lifted his head. “He ’s a hard man!” he said. He fixed his reddened eyes on the boy’s face. “I’ve served the road—man and boy—forty year.” He said the words slowly, as if they were important. They became a kind of chant in the roar of the train—“And now I’m turned off.”

John waited a minute. His slow mind did not find words to speak to the haggard face. “I’m going down to see him,” said the man. “The president!”.

He nodded slowly and solemnly. “They say he ’s a hard man. But he shall hear it to his face—what I ’ve got to say!”

“You ’re going to ask him for work?”

“I ’ve asked it—three times. I ’ll ask it four times,” said the man. “And after that I ’ll curse him.”

The boy made a quick motion.

The old face lifted itself, with a tragic look, toward the car. “Is there aught a man can do?” he demanded. “They ’ve shook the strength out of me for forty year on the road.... They ’ll not take it from me! ... They ’ve drove me up and down—cold and rain—wind that cut my in’ards—till I ’m fit for naught but the switch.... They ’ll not take it from me!” It was a solemn cry.

The boy listened to it, for a moment, as it died away. The train roared its echo mockingly. He reached out a hand and laid it on the rough knee. “Don’t go down today, Tomlinson,” he said slowly. “I want to see him first.”

The old man stared at him with grim eyes. “Ye think ye can help me with him?” he asked sharply.

“I know I can. But you must wait. I have my mother to look after. I can’t be at the office—yet. Wait till I ’m there. You take the next train back and I ’ll write you.”

“I ’ll not go back,” said the old man slowly, “I ’ll not face Ellen without news—good or bad. But I ’ll stop off to my daughter’s—in Hudson. Ye can write me there and I ’ll come.”

“I ’ll write you before the week ’s up,” said John. “You may not need to come down.”

“I thank ye, Johnny,” said the old man. The train had halted at Hudson and he got stiffly to his feet.

“It ’s what Eddie al’ays said about you, you ’d help a man out—gi’e you time!” He chuckled feebly, with returning hope, and climbed down from the car.

His mother’s glance met him as he returned to her side.

He nodded. “He was going down to see the president. But I ’ve got him to wait.... They ought to do something for him,” he said.

“Is he strong enough to work?”

“He’s not strong—except in an emergency, maybe—but he ’s faithful. That ought to count.”

“Yes, that ought to count.” She said the words softly under her breath.

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