She had met him at the station, and told him so, at midday.
But there was nobody to take the train on, if he stepped off the
engine; for his fireman was a young hand, and had been learning his
trade for less than three weeks.
So when the five minutes were up--or rather, ten, for the porters
were bewildered that night--this man went on out of the station into
the night. Just beyond the station the theatre was plain to see,
above the hill on his left, and the flames were leaping from the
roof; and he knew that his wife was there. But the train was never
taken down more steadily, nor did a single passenger guess what
manner of man was driving it.
At Drakeport, where his run ended, he stepped off the engine, walked
from the railway-sheds to his mother-in-law's, where he still lodged,
and went up-stairs to his bed without alarming a soul.
In the morning, at the usual hour, he was down at the station again,
washed and cleanly dressed. His fireman had the Galloper's engine
polished, fired up, and ready to start.
"Mornin'," he nodded, and looking into his driver's eyes, dropped the
handful of dirty lint with which he had been polishing. After
shuffling from foot to foot for a minute, he ended by climbing down
on the far side of the engine.
"Oldster," he said, "'tis mutiny p'raps; but s'help me, if I ride a
mile longside that new face o' your'n!"
"Maybe you're right," his superior answered wearily.
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