The Iron Horse | Page 6

p.m. passenger train must be drove, and
there's nobody left but you to drive it. Jones is away with a goods train
owin' to Maxwell having sprained his ankle, and Long Thompson is
down with small-pox, so you'll have to do it. I offered 'em my services,
but the manager he said that intelligent lads couldn't be spared for such
menial work, and told me to go and fetch you."
"Maxwell had no business to sprain his ankle," said John Marrot.
"Hows'ever," he added cheerfully, "I've had a rare good holiday, an' the
leg's all but right again, so, Molly, let's have an early tea; I'll give it a

good rest for another half-hour and then be ready for the 6:30 p.m-ers.
Cut off your steam, will you?"
This last observation was made to the baby, and was accompanied by a
shake and a toss towards the ceiling which caused him to obey instantly,
under the impression, no doubt that the fun was to be renewed. Being,
however, consigned to the care of Gertie he again let on the steam and
kept it up during the whole time the family were at tea--which meal
they enjoyed thoroughly, quite regardless of the storm.
He was asleep when his father rose at last and buttoned his heavy coat
up to the chin, while Mrs Marrot stood on tiptoe to arrange more
carefully the woollen shawl round his neck.
"Now, don't stand more than you can help on your hurt leg, John."
"Certainly not, duckie," said John, stooping to kiss the upturned face;
"I'll sit on the rail as much as I can, like a 'Merican racoon. By the
way," he added, turning suddenly to Loo, "you delivered that note from
young Mr Tipps to his mother?"
"Yes, immediately after I got it from you; and I waited to see if there
was an answer, but she said there wasn't. It must have contained bad
news, I fear, for she turned pale while she read it."
"H'm, well," said John, putting on his cap, "don't know nothin' about
what was in it, so it's no bizzness o' mine."
With a hearty good-evening to all, and a special embrace to Gertie, the
engine-driver left his home, accompanied by Bob his hopeful son.
"Mr Sharp," said Bob, as they walked along, "has bin makin'
oncommon partikler inquiries among us about some o' the porters. I
raither think they're a bad lot."
"Not at all," replied his father severely. "They're no more a bad lot than
the drivers, or, for the matter of that, than the clerks or the directors, or
the lamp-boys. You ought to be gittin' old enough by this time, Bob, to

know that every lot o' fish in this world, however good, has got a few
bad uns among 'em. As a rule railway directors and railway clerks, and
railway porters and railway officials of all sorts are good--more or
less--the same may be said of banks an' insurances, an' all sorts of
things--but, do what ye may, a black sheep or two will git in among 'em,
and, of course, the bigger the consarn, the more numerous the black
sheep. Even the clergy ain't free from that uniwersal law of natur. But
what's Mr Sharp bin inquiring arter?"
"Ah--wot indeed!" replied Bob; "'ow should I know? Mr Sharp ain't the
man to go about the line with a ticket on his back tellin' wot he's arter.
By no means. P'lice superintendents ain't usually given to that; but he's
arter somethin' partickler."
"Well, that ain't no bizzness of ours, Bob, so we don't need to trouble
our heads about it. There's nothin' like mindin' yer own bizzness. Same
time," added John after a short pause, "that's no reason why, as a
sea-farin' friend o' mine used to say, a man shouldn't keep his
weather-eye open, d'ye see?"
Bob intimated that he did see, by winking with the eye that chanced to
be next his parent; but further converse between father and son was
interrupted at a turn in the road, where they were joined by a stout,
broad-shouldered young man, whose green velveteen jacket vest, and
trousers bespoke him a railway porter.
"Evenin', Sam," said our driver with a friendly nod; "goin' on night
dooty, eh?"
"Yes, worse luck," replied Sam, thrusting his powerful hands into his
pockets.
"Why so, Sam, you ain't used to mind night dooty?"
"No more I do," said Sam testily, "but my missus is took bad, and
there's no one to look after her properly--for that old 'ooman we got
ain't to be trusted. 'Tis a hard thing to have to go on night dooty when a
higher dooty bids me stay at home."

There was a touch of deep feeling in the tone in which the latter part of