Only--this veritably smacked of genius--the blue coat with
the gold buttons had been made too small for him, and he'd have to wait
until they sent him a larger size--"a No. 12," he said, with a careless,
unseeing glance at our group. This was a stroke that had nearly done for
one of us--but a moment's resistance and another of sober reflection
saved him. He flashed to me a look of scorn for the clumsy fabrication.
There was still a brakeman needed, it appeared,--a _good_ brakeman. The
Sullivans consulted importantly, wondering if "a good man" could by any
chance be found "around here." They named and rejected several possible
candidates--other boys that we knew. And they wondered again.
No--probably every one around here was afraid to leave home, or wouldn't
be strong enough.
I held my breath, perceiving at once, the villany on foot. They were
trying to lure one of us into a trap. They wished one of us to leap
forward with a glad, eager, artless shout--"_I'll_ be the other
brakeman!" At once they would jeer coarsely, slapping one another's
backs and affecting the utmost merriment that this one of us should have
been equal to so monstrous a pretension. This would last a long time.
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