who is managing?” said simeon.

they had finished breakfast and sat with chairs pushed back from the table. it was the first question he had asked about the road. he had devoted himself to the business of getting well as thoroughly as to any business he had ever undertaken. but he was well now. “who is managing!’ he said quietly.

the young man looked at him with a frank smile. “nobody is managing,” he said—“that ’s the worst of it. i ’ve been doing things—things that had to be done—and trying to stave off other people’s managing.”

simeon nodded quickly. “that ’s the best thing could have happened. i hope you ’ve done it.”

“well, not altogether—the men in the office were all right.... but the directors fidgeted some—”

“corbin,” said simeon, “i know.”

the young man nodded.

“oh, i know,” said simeon testily. “and dickerman, i suppose—yes, yes, i know—go ahead now—tell me everything.” he leaned forward with elbows on the table—the old alert look in his eyes.

when the recital was finished, he stood up, stretching his arms with a gesture of content. “it might be worse,” he said.

“you may find it worse than you think,” said the young man, “no head to anything.”

“just legs and arms,” said simeon. he laid his hand in passing on the boy’s shoulder. “i’d rather have legs and arms—good ones—than any heads i know of—except my own,” he added laughing. “when do we go?”

“i brought down the special last night. she’s at bridgewater.”

“stetson with her! that ’s good. we start tonight—get there at ten—sleep home—ready for business.”

john smiled at the old, quick orders and went out to set them in motion. he looked up to the clear, keen sky with a sudden lightness of heart. a new day had come. perhaps the tortoise had something the same feeling when atlas stooped his shoulder to the world.

by night, the little house was stripped of its belongings. some of them were packed in bags and boxes and the rest were to be stored in the loft overhead. the boughs of spruce and hemlock and pine had been taken down from the walls and burned in the fireplace during the day. the room was filled with the sweet, pungent odor.

at the last minute john had hurried to the woods and brought back an armful of fresh boughs—spruce and pine, hemlock and blue-berried cedar—clustered thick—and trailing green vines. he tossed them lightly into the back of the sleigh and sprang in.

the special was waiting on the siding. they saw the little, flying puffs rise from her and float on the clear air.... stetson was ready—with steam up—they would be off at once.

the baggage master came forward to help with the bags. he spoke a word in john’s ear as he passed him.

the young man glanced quickly toward the engine that puffed and chugged at the head of the little train. he helped simeon into the car and hurried forward. the man standing by the engine looked at him with troubled eyes.

“he’s sick,” he said slowly, as john came up. “he was took bad just after he came down.” he nodded toward the baggage room, “he told me to fire up—ready to go ahead. said you’d know what to do.”

the young man turned toward the baggage room. the engineer, out of a heap of blankets, spread across some trunks, regarded him somberly. “i can’t do it,” he said, “i don’t dare. it gripes too hard when it comes. it’s easier now, for a minute—but it ’ll come back.” he writhed a little as he spoke.

“you must n’t stay here,” said john quickly. he looked about him.

the man put out a hand. “i’m going,” he said, “as soon as she starts. i waited for you.” john nodded. “is there anyone—on the others?” he motioned toward the yard.

the man shook his head gloomily—“freights,” he said. a kind of subtle pride underran the words—“i would n’t trust ’em with her.”

the young man lifted his head—a swift thought had crossed his face. “i saw tomlinson on the street as we drove in—could he-?”

the man stared at him—“old tomlinson?” justice weighed in the tone. “you can ask him,” he said grudgingly at last.

“he ’s all right for it?” questioned john.

the man writhed a little in his place. but justice held—“he’s all right if he says so,” he answered. his teeth bit at the under lip, holding it firm, and he breathed hard. “he’s first-class—tomlinson. he won’t say he can take her unless he’s able. you can trust tomlinson—same as you would me.” the pride of brotherhood breathed in the words—lifting them mightily.

“i ’ll see him,” said john.

the hand held him back. “don’t urge him.” he gasped a little for breath between the words. “if he says he can do it—let him take her.”

“i understand,” said john. “i ’ll send some one for you.” he was gone from the room.

as he passed the car, he hesitated a minute. then he sprang up the step and went in. “all ready!” said simeon looking up.

“stetson ’s sick—shall we wait over?”

“wait over? no! get somebody—get anybody!” he threw out the words.

the young man hesitated a minute. he had not mentioned tomlinson’s name to simeon. something had always pulled him back when he had thought to do it. “there’s a man—” he said slowly—“lives here—he ’s not running now—”

“competent?” said simeon.

“stetson says so.”

“get him.”

tomlinson, one foot on the sleigh, looked at him under keen, shaggy brows. he glanced toward the station, with its wreathing, drifting lines of smoke. he shook his head. “i’m going home,” he said. he threw the halter into the sleigh and knocked the snow from his boots against the side.

john watched him silently, as he climbed in and gathered up the reins in big,-mittened hands.

“we need you, hugh,” he said slowly.

the old man nodded—impassive. “can’t go,” he said.

“why not!”

“she ’ll be waiting.” he pulled a little on the reins.

“send some one home with the team—there’s russell! get him.”

the scotchman glanced with indifferent eye at a man crossing the street. “i ’ve got my chores to do.” he pulled again on the reins.

the old horse lifted his head.

john laid a hand on the sleigh. “see here, hugh. we need you—there’s no one else—he told me to get you.”

the pull on the reins was checked. “who told you!”

“president tetlow. he ’s waiting—” he motioned toward the track where the special was blowing off steam. hugh’s eye followed the motion. it dropped to the young man. “he told you—sim tetlow—” he demanded, “he wants me!”

“yes. he wants you—but not if you ’re not up to it—” he had remembered stetson’s words.

the old man leaned forward, winding the reins slowly around the whip. “i ’ll take her,” he said.

“you ’re not afraid!” said john. something in the face disturbed him.

“i ’ll take her,” said hugh briefly.

“stetson’s jumpers are in the cab,” said john as they came down the platform.

“too short,” said the old man. he was striding with mighty step.

john glanced at him. “that ’s so—the coat’s all right.”

“like enough,” said hugh absently. his face had an absorbed look—the eyes beneath the fur cap gleamed like little points of light. when they reached the engine, the light broke and ran over his face. he mounted to the cab and laid his hand on the lever—“i ’ll take her down, johnny—don’t you worry.” he nodded to the young man standing below.

the face cleared. “all right, hugh—it’s the president of the road you ’re carrying, you know.”

“aye—it ’s sim tetlow—i know,” said hugh. he opened the lever a little.

the young man hurried toward the car.

“all right!” asked simeon as he came in. the train was in slow motion.

“all right,” said john.

supper was brought in and they ate it leisurely, watching the light change and fade upon the hills and darkness settle down outside. simeon’s eyes came back to the young man’s face. “i mean to know this country,” he said, “every mile of it.”

the young man smiled a little. “don’t you know it now!”

“i don’t know anything,” said simeon. “i was born last night.—i was born last night,” he said looking at the black window in a reverie. “who lives along here?” he nodded toward the darkness. “what kind of people!”

john peered out. “winchendon, we just passed, was n’t it? i don’t know. i’ve never been here.”

“ever lived outside of bridgewater!” said simeon.

“no, sir.”

“tell me about that.”

“about—!” the lifted eyebrows held it.

simeon nodded. “about anything. steel works—button shop—everything.”

john thought a minute—“you know as much as i do—more. they do a big business.”

“what kind of men?” asked simeon brusquely.

“men?—in the works—you mean?”

“in them—over them—on top—outside, inside,” said simeon. “you know ’em, don’t you? lived with ’em—been to school with ’em—?”

“oh—if you mean that—!” a smile had come into the puzzled face.

“i mean that,” said simeon. he had lighted a cigar and was watching the tip intently.

the cigar went out and was relighted many times before the story of bridgewater was finished. the slow mind of the narrator wandered in and out through the past, nudged by keen, quick questions from the nervous listener beside him. little things loomed large—big things faded and slipped away in john’s vision. it had been a mighty day for bridgewater when the county house was built; but simeon scoffed at the court-house and listened with rapt face to the story of two truckmen that john knew who had quarreled over their stand and made up, and joined against a third and held up the transportation of bridgewater for three days.

simeon sighed a little. “i ’ve never lived,” he said slowly. “i’ve made money—i’ve sat with my face close to a board, making money, studying moves—i’ve played a good game—” he said it grimly—“but i ’ve never lived yet. my father always said ‘go in to win,’ and there was n’t any mother.” he said the words between the puffs.... “and then i married—” he waited a minute—“yes—i guess i lived—a year. but i did n’t know-then.”

there was silence in the car. the train sped through soft, even darkness. the engine shrieked at a solitary grade crossing and was past.

the man lifted his head. there was a deep smile in his eyes.... “it ’s all going to be different,” he said slowly, “just wait till we get things in hand—i ’m going over the road.”... he drew a map from his pocket and spread it on the table.... “here is a place i want to know.” he pointed to a corner of the map, “they ’re always making a fuss up there—saying the road’s got to come their way. the division superintendent says it won’t pay—they say it will. i ’m going up.”

john leaned forward—“chester county.” he spelled the name across the map. “my father knows chester county.”

simeon looked up with quick stare... “your father?”

“he lived there when he was a boy.”

“i must know him,” said simeon. “i ’ll take him with me.”

john smiled at the picture—but underneath the smile ran a swift sense of his father’s presence—its slow, steadying power upon the nervous, hurrying man. he would rest in the stolid strength of it. “i ’ll bring him to see you,” he said.

“yes—what is your mother like?—you have not told me about your mother.” he gazed at the boy deeply.

“there’s no one like her,” said john. “i could n’t tell you. nobody could tell about mother.” his glance had traveled to the rack overhead where the fragrant boughs hung out, filling the air with light fragrance—he saw the light in her face and her hands held out to them—he smiled.

simeon sighed and moved restlessly. he held another match to the cigar and his eye, as it followed the steady hand, filled with quick pride.

john was watching the hand, too, and the eyes of the two men met.

“i ’m all right,” said simeon, throwing away the match with a little laugh.

“you ’re all right,” said john with deeper meaning.

“and i ’m a young man.” he rose and paced a few steps in the car—“i ’m forty-three—you don’t call that old?”

the eyes watching him smiled.

“that is not old,” said simeon. he stretched himself to his full height, rapping his chest softly. he threw out his arm—toward the night. “i’m just beginning,” he said.

the brakeman passed through the car-carrying something on his arm. a piece of old cloth, a bit of signal flag, was thrown carelessly across it.

john’s eye followed him to the rear of the car. after a minute he got up and went to the door. he opened it and stepped onto the platform. the brakeman was bending over the end of the car, peering down at something. he tested it once or twice with his hand before he scrambled to his feet. “it ’s the red,” he said as he saw who stood beside him. “it don’t burn right—”

“yes—what’s up?” the train was swirling through the dark and they held to the guard-rail as they faced each other.

in his cab, at the other end of the train, the old scotchman, his body braced to the swing of the wheels, leaned out, looking back with tense eyes.

“can ye see her, jim?”

the fireman leaned beside him, for a moment, piercing the dark with swift, keen glance, “nothing there,” he said.

the train, on the down grade by the river, ran with swift ease through the night.... no sight—no sound.... only the great river to the left slipping—dark and still, and the stars overhead.

but the two men leaned back, scenting the dark with swift gaze.

“nothing there,” said the fireman, peering out, “you must ’a’—”

he paused—with quick turn.

a long, low whistle broke the night, echoing against the distant hills.

the eyes of the two men met. tomlinson’s hand raised itself with startled thrust. the answering shriek tore the night.... once—twice—in hoarse demand....

again the low, seeking call among the hills. then silence and the black river slipping by.

the fireman sprang to his place.

tomlinson’s hand upon the lever quickened its hold, drawing it tense. “we take no chances,” he said. the engine trembled beneath and leaped to swifter stride. it swayed through the night. the furnace door flew open and heaven blazed with roar and glow and swift heat. the faces of the two men, lurid in the white glare, confronted each other. then darkness, and the swift rush of steel on steel—crunching, heavy beats of sound—and the thrusting roar and smoke.... they were swinging the bend of the curve now, where the road leaves the river under the mountain to track across country. tomlinson, his body half thrown from the cab, strained back, his peering eyes searching the distant curve. he drew his hand across them.

“she ’s there, jim!.... look!” the shaking hand flung the words.

the fireman leaped to his side. a glimmer—a flash—twinkled gleams on the far curve.

“it ’s her!” muttered tomlinson.

“86,” said the fireman.

“the heaviest on the road.” tomlinson’s hand reached up....

she was running at frightful speed. his quick eye gaged her flight as he sounded the high, shrill call of warning.... she had not slowed for the curve.... she was not slowing now! again the whistle sounded its savage cry.

and the note came back—echoing among the hills in little peals that laughed.

“ah—she had heard.... she knew they were there... they were safe now.” the hand on the lever released its grip.... gleason was running her. he was safe—ten miles more.... simeon tetlow, swaying at ease in his parlor car, need not fear.... they were picked men on the road—and he ran them hard. they would bring him through....

once more tomlinson leaned out, looking back with a grim smile.... his startled gaze threw itself—she was not slowing—“jim!” it was hoarse like a whisper—“jim!—look!”

but the fireman, bending to his flaming pot, had not heard.

the red eyes blazed again to the night.... “jim!—” the hoarse cry shook the night.

the man sprang forward.

“look!” he flung a hand.

the man leaned out. “god!” he said—he strained his eyes.... “the brakes don’t grip,” he cried fiercely.... “she’s running wild!” the words drove with the flying wind. he drew back, lifting a white face. “down grade,” he whispered.

“aye—down grade,” said tomlinson, quietly. “pile on the coal, jim!” he flung the throttle wide. a great light broke across his face. “pile on the coal, jim!” the engine sprang.—“stuff her,” he cried.

again the flare and roar to the night—great flying sparks.... glory and fierce heat and the mighty power that throbbed to leap its bounds.... winged thrust—horns and hoofs, and spilling flame....

the old engineer, his hand on the lever, balanced himself to the plunging flight. his small, peering eyes held the track ahead—they laid down the road before the wheels. and somewhere—far within—his soul laughed.... in the hollow of his hand he held him—the man who had scorned him—thrust him out.... “you shall never touch throttle or brake or switch on this road.” the wheels ground out the words. they beat them to powder and flung them—with hitter laugh and roar—upon the night.... he would not trust! and now he lay, like a baby, swung to the sound of wheels. tomlinson laughed and set his teeth and leaned forward, squaring his shoulders.... his feet gripped the bounding floor. he would carry him safe.... they need not fear tomlinson... .

back in the car, simeon tetlow, absorbed in his map, looked up absently ... his glance on the swaying lamps—“they ’re taking us down pretty fast,” he said.

the young man nodded. he was sitting across the table, his head testing on his hand, his eyes, with their quiet light, fixed on simeon’s face. he had not stirred since he came in from the platform ten minutes ago.

simeon, working on his map, looked up now and then with a little smile, and the quiet eyes smiled back. but something hungry had crept into them—a look of protection and longing—as if they would shield something helpless.

the train, in its heavy swing, lurched a little and simeon looked up with a scowl that was half a laugh. the pencil had scrawled a curious, zigzag course across the paper. “i don’t seem to be running this road,” he said, “i might as well give up.” he pushed the map from him and looked at his watch—“9:40—where are ye?”

“just past dunlop’s crossing,” said john..... at nine-forty, 86 was due at the crossing—the time-table in his pocket told it to him—five minutes off. someone had blundered and she was in their block—close behind them—pressing upon them.... but the dull face gave no sign.

“twenty minutes,” said simeon. he stretched his arms with a little yawn—“we ’ll be in by ten—you think!”

“i think we shall be in before ten,” said the boy. his voice was very quiet, but the man looked up and saw the light in the eyes.

he leaned forward. “what is it, john?”

“nothing, sir—” he said the words slowly. “i was only wishing i could do something for you.”

“why, boy—” he turned his head a little, listening—the shrill whistle had sounded—“what’s that!”

“some train at dunlop’s” said john.

the train beneath them seemed gathering itself in mighty leaps.

in the cab, the old engineer, with tense body and set teeth, laughed grimly—“i ’ll bring him in—i ’ll bring him in!”

the miles leaped behind them, flying. and behind them the express pounded heavily—soulless—massive—blind... five miles now—three—and the scotchman laughed with the great lurches of his cab—

the lights of the upper station flashed past... then the lights of the yard... he threw the lever swiftly into place. the roar slackened and fell and ceased. the special was gliding easily down to her berth in the terminal shed.

the express, under control now, halted at the upper station, her blind eye glimmering through the dusk toward the little train that ran—smooth—safe, on its way. she gave a shrill cry—and puffed—impatient to be off.

simeon put away the map in his pocket. he looked out into the busy yard as they drew in—little lights... slow-pulling freights—busy engines puffing up and down—smoke and grime. his own work. his heart leaped to it as he stepped from the car, and he lifted up his face to the great train shed—as in some great cathedral one looks up—and waits.... whirling, drifting smoke—soaring and shimmering into the high roof.... bells and voices and the sound of murmured calls... crimson torches flaring—skimming along the platforms—diving under engines—with hungry, peering eyes.... he took it in for a moment with deep, full breath before they swung down the platform.

beside the engine an old man was bending with flaring torch, thrusting it into the heart of her, searching with careful eye for any harm that had come.

“oh—tomlinson!” said john.

the figure straightened itself and wheeled about, torch in hand.... his glance fell on the president of the road and he stepped forward, a solemn look in the keen, blue eyes. he reached out a gaunt hand. the face, beneath its grime, held a deep, quiet power—“i forgi’e ye, simeon tetlow,” he said slowly. “i forgi’e ye,—now.”

the president of the road took the grimy hand in his, with firm grip. “it ’s all right, tomlinson, all right.”

he stood for a moment looking up at the tall figure, covered with oil and dirt—the smoke-stained face full of a kind of dignity.... “you brought us down fast, tomlinson,” said the president of the road with a little smile.

“aye, i brought ye fast,” said tomlinson. but there was no smile in the words.

he was gazing over their heads at something beyond them.

the express had come to rest in the next berth and the great engine loomed above them—breathing softly—full of pride and strength.

the three men looked at her for a minute, as if a magnet held them. then the crowd, pouring out of the express, bore down upon them and swept them along. tomlinson climbed back to his place in the cab, watching the two men until they were lost to sight in the jostling, hurrying throng. the express was a long one and the crowd streamed past... pushing, laughing... voices called... cramped limbs stretched themselves after the long ride and hurried a little; the platform resounded to light steps.

the engineer of the express leaned from his window, on folded arms, looking down. he was a quiet man with thoughtful eyes and a serious face.... the eyes raised themselves and looked across at tomlinson—above the heads of the happy, hurrying crowd—a straight, slow glance. then he lifted his hand to him—the sign of the brotherhood—as one who salutes an equal.

and tomlinson lifted his hand in return.

simeon emerged from the wicket gate, looking about with happy glance. the popcorn boy, scurrying to his place, the lights flaring and blazing, cabmen shouting—it was beautiful-all of it. he fell into the old, brisk walk and john, hurrying beside him, could hardly keep pace with it... . joy was everywhere tonight—sound and bustle and quick-moving crowd. the nervous, hurrying frame vibrated to the city as a child to its mother’s touch, or the heart to music.... he was back among his own—exile was done.... they pressed upon him—past him—around him. he jostled elbows, and was glad. he could have stretched out his hands to them—every one. the grasp of the old scotchman’s fingers lingered with him still—it crept np his arm in tiny thrills and warmed his heart. he must do something better for tomlinson. there was strength in the old man still—with a grip like that! he rubbed his hand and shook his fingers a little ruefully at the very thought of it. how the old fellow had loomed—there on the platform—tall and grim! then—in a flash—he saw him... in the green room, his head lifted high, his face stem... the very scent of the room was in the vision, pungent and fresh.

he drew a quick breath and threw back his head with a little impatient gesture. “i shall never get out of those woods,” he said. “i can smell them—yet! lean smell them here.”...

the boy glanced at him with swift twinkle. “look behind you, sir.”

simeon flashed back a quick look. behind them was the porter, laden with bags and mgs. and bundles, and on his great shoulders the green branches swayed and nodded as he moved. they framed the big face with its gleaming smile—like some grotesque, dark-skinned dryad in the smoky station.

simeon’s eye sought the boy’s—a little anxiously, it seemed, “going to trim the office?” he said.

he laughed back. “i ’m carrying them home to her.”

he called a carriage, and the porter stowed away the boxes and bags and mgs, piling the mass of pine and spruce on the seat in front of them till the carriage was filled with its subtle fragrance.

simeon leaned forward in the half light and plucked a little spray of the cedar, placing it in his coat. “that is for me,” he said, smiling a little, as he buttoned the coat over it, “the rest is for her.”

the great office building loomed at the right as they drove, and he glanced out quickly. “same old place!” he said. his face wore a contented look and his hand reached out, in the dim light, to the stubby one resting on the boy’s knee and closed upon it for a moment with firm grasp.... “tomorrow, boy,” he said, “we begin again.”

“tomorrow, sir,” replied the boy.

he entered the house lightly, but not so lightly that her sensitive ear did not catch the sound and hold itself attent to listen—“john?” her voice searched the darkness. “john?—is it you?”

he came in swiftly—“bad mother!” he dropped on his knees beside her and laid his cool cheek to hers.... “bad mother—to lie awake!” her hand reached up to stroke his face.... “how fragrant you are—like the woods!”

the fingers strayed a little and touched the feathery sprays and lingered—questioning. “it is the woods! you have brought me the woods!” the little cry of joy trembled in her voice. “i shall sleep now.”

he bent and kissed her. “good-night, mother.”

“good-night, my son..”

in the dusky, fragrant room she fell asleep, like a child, and she dreamed that she was-a child and wandered in a wood and that an angel with shining eyes came to her and walked with her under the green branches and when he went away she cried to him and he turned and kissed her and said—

“i have brought your breakfast, mother.” so she wakened to another day.