reg'lar. For about a week she'd have the jim-jams—seemed like she got tired of working, and wanted a spell of rest in the round-house. Well, the new man didn't know this, and instead of letting her have her own way, he tried to drive her, and Sally just blew her cylinder-head out for spite. And when she was helpless on the siding a long freight came along, and the switchman lost his wits, and set the switch wrong, and that eighteen-thousand-dollar beauty was crippled so she never was worth much afterward. And about that time my lungs gave out, and I had to come up here. I never cared much about an ingine after Sally. I dare say I might get a place again to run a passenger train, but I think about poor Sally, and I don't feel like going back on the old girl; so here I am, side-tracked for life at Mudhole Junction."

"It was all on account of a patent air-brake that I'm here," remarked Laurie.

"It's coming," thought Blundon.

"I am an only child," said Laurie, after a little pause, "and I had the best daddy in the world, except that he was so obstinate."

"You weren't obstinate, young feller," Blundon gravely interjected. "You were just firm. It's the other feller that's pig-headed always. Go on."

Laurie glanced up quickly, and grinned at Blundon for a moment.

"Well, perhaps I was a little obstinate too—a chip of the old block. As long as my mother lived, God bless her!"—here Laurie raised his cap reverently—"she could always make peace between us. But when she went to heaven there was nobody to do this. The first serious falling out we had was when I went to college. I took the scientific course, and apparently I didn't do much at it. But I was working like a beaver at an air-brake, and when I wasn't in the class-rooms I was down at the railroad shops studying brakes. I found out a lot about them, and I also found out that my wonderful invention wasn't any invention at all. It had been tried and discarded. My father, though, thought I was idling, and wrote me a riproaring letter. One word brought on another, until at last I walked myself out of the house after our last interview, and told my father I would never take another cent from him as long as I lived. I had a little money that my mother left me. My father said I'd come back as soon as I'd run through with what I had, and that made me mad. I knew my lungs weren't in good shape, and the doctors told me to come up here and try living in a shanty for a year. I've done it, and I'm cured, and my feelings have softened toward my father—he was a kind old dad when he had his own way—but I can't—I can't make the first advance to him."

Blundon's usual address to Laurie was, "Young feller," but on serious occasions he called him "Mr. Vane, sir."

"Mr. Vane, sir," he said, "do you know the meaning of the word courage?"

"Yes," answered Laurie, promptly.

"And sense—good, hard, barnyard sense, Mr. Vane, sir?"

"Yes," again replied Laurie.

"And, Mr. Vane, sir, do you think you're treatin' your father right?"

"N-n-no," said Laurie, not at all promptly.

"Well, Mr. Vane, sir," continued Blundon, rising, and getting his lantern, "I don't think you can lay any extravagant claims to either sense or courage as long as you don't know how to make the first advance toward your own father, when you know you ain't treatin' him right. There's the express going in the tunnel."

Laurie rose too with a grave face. Blundon's words were few, but Laurie had learned to know the man, and to respect him deeply; and Laurie knew that Blundon's words were a strong condemnation.

The two went out upon the little platform to see the express pass. The night was very dark, without moon or stars. In a minute or two the train, a blaze of light from end to end, dashed out of the tunnel, and with one wild scream took the three-mile straight stretch down-grade like a streak of lightning. Not half the distance had been covered, when Blundon, almost dropping the lantern in his surprise, shouted, "She's slowing up to stop!"

Almost by the time the words were out of his mouth the locomotive was within fifty yards of them, and with a clang, a bang, and a snort it came to a full stop. The conductor had jumped off while the train was still moving, and he ran up to Blundon and Laurie.

"What's the matter?" asked Blundon, holding up the lantern in the conductor's face.

"Matter enough," answered the conductor. "The engineer slipped on the floor of the cab, about ten miles back, and wrenched his arm, so he is perfectly helpless, and almost wild with pain; the negro fireman brought us the last ten miles, but he couldn't take us over the mountain."

"I reckon I can," said Blundon, coolly. "You know my record."

"Yes; and that's why I stopped," answered the conductor. "But look here."

He handed out a piece of paper, on which was written clearly:

"Pay no attention to a red light on the trestle. It means a hold up at the end of the trestle. The men know what is in the express car, and they have dynamite.

"A Friend."

"Maybe it's a hoax," said Blundon.

"And maybe it ain't a hoax," said the conductor.

Blundon, the conductor, and Laurie had been standing close together during this short and half-whispered colloquy, but the negro fireman had slipped up behind them, and had seen the note by the lantern's glimmer.

"Good Lawd A'mighty!" he yelled. "De train robbers is arter dis heah train! Well, dey ain' gwi git no chance fur to blow dis nigger up wid dynamite." And without another word he took to his heels, and immediately was lost in the darkness.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish!" exclaimed the conductor.

"Never you mind," said Blundon, with a grim smile; "this young feller will be my fireman, and I'll agree to take the train across the mountain, hold up or no hold up. I'm off duty now until six o'clock to-morrow morning, and I can get back by that time."

"All right," answered the conductor, going toward the cab, where they found the engineer groaning with pain.

"Just groan through the telephone, old man," said Blundon, as they helped him out, "and you'll get a doctor from the house over yonder, and he'll set your arm in a jiffy."

"Wouldn't it be a good idea," said Laurie, diffidently, "if the engineer telephoned to Stoneville that if the train is delayed to send a posse to the Stoneville end of the trestle! This is the night the Stoneville Light Infantry meet to drill, and they'd be handy in case of a hold up."

The conductor hesitated a moment, then went over to the express car, and came back.

"The express messenger says to telephone to the soldier boys, and if it is a hoax, he can stand the racket, and if it ain't—well, he has got near ninety thousand dollars in the safe, and he ain't a-going to give it away."

In another moment the injured engineer was ringing the telephone bell. Two or three passengers then appeared on the platform of the smoker.

"Hello!" cried one of them, in a voice singularly like Laurie's. "What's up?"

"Stopping for a new fireman, sir," answered the conductor, airily. "All aboard!"

As Laurie took his seat, in the cab beside Blundon, he said, with a pale face, "That was my father who spoke."

"Glad of it," bawled Blundon, over the roar of the train. "I hope he's got a gun."

Laurie had often heard that one never could judge of a man until he had been seen engaged in his own especial vocation, and he found it true as regarded Blundon. The old engineer was usually round-shouldered, and had a leisurely, not to say lazy, way of moving about. But the instant his hand touched the throttle of the engine he became alert and keen-eyed, his figure straightened, and the power he possessed intrinsically became visible.

The train sped on for an hour before entering a deep cut,