the special was halting, with little puffs, and the president swung down from the steps. he looked about him with a nervous, running glance up and down the platform. if the boy were not here, he could not wait....
“hello!” he laid his hands on a pair of broad shoulders that pushed toward him out of the dusk. “i want you—right off!”
“all right, sir, i’m coming.” there was a note of joy in the voice that warmed the older man’s heart.
“you ’re ready, are you?” he had turned toward the steps, with quick motion.
the boy laughed a little, hurrying beside him. “not tonight. i must wait. there are things—”
the president paused, one foot on the step, glaring at him. “what things—telegraph—” he waved a hand toward the office.
“it is n’t that.” the boy spoke quickly, the puffs from the engine driving his words aside. nothing could seem important except that great engine, panting to be off, and the nervous man gripping the rail at his side. “it is n’t that, sir. it is my mother and the moving. i must see to that first.”
“oh, they ’re coming, are they?” the hand on the rail relaxed.
“yes, sir.”
the president stepped back to the platform. he made an impatient gesture to the engineer and turned to the boy. “how long do you want?” it was the old, sharp tone.
but the boy smiled, looking at him with shining eyes. “we might walk up and down,” he suggested.
“oh, walk—if you want to!” growled simeon. he fell into a quick trot, matching the boy’s stride.
“things are bad down there!” he jerked out the words. “damn fool work!”
“yes, sir.”
“and the fault’s here.” he nodded toward the maze of tracks that stretched away in the dark.
“tomlinson is an old man,” said the boy.
“old fool!” retorted the other. “must have been asleep—drunk!”
“i don’t think he drinks,” said the boy quietly. “the hours are long—he ’s old—he may have dropped off.”
“he ’ll drop off now,” said the other grimly, “—way off—how long will it take—this moving business?”
the boy waited a minute. “i want to come now, sir, right off—tomorrow. but my mother is not well—you see we must wait for the right day, and there is the house to look out for and my father—”
“don’t you know i need you?” said simeon gruffly.
the boy looked at him again. it was plain, even in the obscure light, that the man was driven.... he had never seen him like this; and he thought rapidly. the engine had ceased its puffs, but he felt the great throbbing power waiting there behind it. his blood thrilled to it, drifting in his veins. to be off with this man—shaping the course of a world! they had come to the end of the platform and he stopped, wiping away the great drops that had gathered on his forehead.
“it ’s a hot night,” said simeon testily. “come into the car—get something cool.” the tone was almost crafty and the boy smiled, shaking his head. “not tonight!”
already the slow, patient underhold had regained its power. he spoke in his old, slow fashion, choosing his words with care. “i can’t go tonight, sir. but i ’ll come the first thing in the morning, if that will do. a few days won’t matter. the moving can wait till this thing is straightened out.” he motioned toward the east, where the wreck lay.
they had turned and were pacing back toward the engine. insensibly simeon’s gait had slowed to the boy’s even tread and his breathing had slackened its quick beat. he looked at the great eye blazing toward them through the dusk. “you won’t come,” he said, “not till you ’re good and ready. but i tell you—i shall dock your pay!”
the boy laughed out. “i will come tomorrow, sir, if she keeps well.”
“oh, tomorrow!” said simeon. it might have been years from the tone.
he stepped on to the platform of the car. “i can get along without you,” he said. the train had started and the words rumbled back, out of the roar of smoke. but to the boy, standing with his hat in his hand, they were an appeal for help, a call from the whirl and rush of the world for something that he had to give.
he turned away and went down the street, wondering a little at the strangeness of the day.
it was a radiant night.
he looked up to the sky—the same sky that the man in the garden had lifted his face to, a little while ago, kneeling among the plants. but the stars were out now, lighting its gloom. the boy thought suddenly of his mother’s eyes and quickened his pace. she would be waiting for him, looking into the dark. he felt a little thrill of pride in her courage. ... she would make the sacrifice for him without a murmur. yet it was not for him—nor for the man who needed him. but behind him—behind them all—a great hand seemed reaching out to the boy, beckoning him, drawing him to his place in the world.
