I knew the truth in a glance. There had been clamors for the positions
of honor, and she, from weakness of sex, had been overborne. She, whose
heart cried out for the distinction of train-boy, conductor, engineer,
brakeman, or fireman, in the order named, had been forced into the only
degrading post in the game--a mere passenger without voice or office in
those delicate feats of administration. And she suffered--suffered with
a pathetic loyalty, for she knew as well as they that some one _had_ to
be the passenger.
I held an accusing eye upon my namesake and the train came to a sudden
halt, much embarrassed, though the brakeman, with artistic relish, made
a vast ado with his brake and pretended that "she" might start off again
any minute.
My namesake poised himself on the foot that had no stone-bruise and
began:--
"Now, Uncle Maje, I _told_ her she could be engineer after we got to the
next station--"
His tones were those of benevolence that has been ill-requited.
"_That_ was las' station," broke in the aggrieved passenger, "an' they
wouldn't stop the train there 'cause they said it was a 'spress train
and mustn't stop at such little stations--"
"I tried awful hard to stop her," said the crafty Sullivan at the
throttle, "but she got away from me.
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