By the time he reached the engine-house he was white with snow, and wet
and warm. There was no heating in the sheds where the locomotives waited
for their firemen, and the snow and wind beat in, and on the
cow-catchers of the two in line was a fringe of white like the
embroidery on a woman's dress. The gas lamps lit the big place
insufficiently, and the storm whistled through the thin wooden shed.
Number Ten at the side of Antony's engine was the midnight express
locomotive, to be hitched at West Albany to the Far West Limited. His
own, Number Forty-one, was smaller, less powerful, more slender,
graceful, more feminine, and Antony kept it shining and gleaming and
lustreful. It was his pride to regard it as a living thing. Love was
essential to any work he did; he did not understand toil without it, and
he cared for his locomotive with enthusiasm.
He did not draw out for half an hour. His machine was in perfect order;
the fire had already been started by one of the shed firemen, and
Fairfax shook down the coals and prepared to get up steam. They were
scheduled to leave West Albany at nine and carry a freight train into
the State as far as Utica. He would be in the train till dawn. It was
his first night's work in several weeks, and the first ever in a
temperature like this. Since morning the thermometer had fallen twenty
points.
His thoughts kindled as his fire kindled--a red dress flashed before his
eyes. Sometimes it was vivid scarlet, too vivid and too violent, then it
changed to a warm crimson, and Bella's head was dark above it. But the
vision of the child was too young to hold Antony, now desirous and
gloomy. His point of view had changed and his face set as he worked
about in the cab and his adjustable lamp cast its light upon a face that
was grave and stern.
He hummed under his breath the different things as they came to him.
"_J'ai perdu ma tourterelle._"
Dear old Professor Dufaucon, with his yellow goatee and his broken
English. And the magnolias were blooming in the yard, for the professor
lived on the veranda and liked the open air, and in the spring there
were the nightingales.
"_J'ai perdu ma tourterelle._"
"First catch your hare," Antony said. "I have never had a turtle-dove,
never had a sweetheart since I fell from the cherry-tree."
Sounds that were now familiar to him came from outside, the ringing of
the bells as the locomotives drew through the storm, the high scream of
the whistles, the roll and rumble of the wheels and the calling of the
employer to the railroad hands as they passed to their duties outside
the shed. Fairfax left Louisiana and stopped singing. He threw open the
door of his furnace, and the water hissed and bubbled in the boiler. He
opened the cock and the escaping steam filled the engine-house and mixed
with the damp air.
Looking through the window of the cab, Fairfax saw a figure pass in
under the shed. It was a woman with a shawl over her head. He climbed
down out of the cab; the woman threw the shawl back, he saw the head and
dress.
"Why, Miss Molly!" he exclaimed. He thought she had come for Sanders.
She held out a yellow envelope, but even though she knew she brought him
news and that he would not think of her, her big eyes fastened on him
were eloquent. Fairfax did not answer their appeal. He tore open the
telegram.
"I brought it myself," she murmured. "I hope it ain't bad news."
He tore it open with hands stained with grease and oil. He read it in
the light of his cab lamp, read it twice, and a man who was hanging
around for a job felt the fireman of Number Forty-one grasp his arm.
"Tell Joe Mead to take you to-night to fire for him--tell him I've got
bad news. I'm going to New York."
"It's too bad," said the other cheerfully. "I'll tell him."
Fairfax had gone flying on his well foot and his lame foot like a
jackdaw. He was out of the shed without a word to Molly Shannon.
"Your felly's got bad news," said the man, and, keenly delighted with
his sudden luck, climbed agilely into the cab of Number Forty-one, and,
leaning out of the window, looked down on Molly.
"He ain't my felly," she responded heavily, "he boards to Kenny's. I
just brought him the despatch, but I think it's bad news, sure enough."
And wrapping the shawl closer over her head, she passed out into the
storm whose fringe was deepening on the cow-catchers of Number Ten and
Number Forty-one.
* * * * *
Sanders' big locomotive ran in from the side to the main track as
smoothly as oil, and backed up the line to the cars of the night mail.
Sanders was to start at eight o'clock, and it was a minute before the
hour. The ringing of his bell and the hiss of the steam were in his
ears. He was just about to open the throttle when a voice on the other
side called to him, and Fairfax climbed up into the cab.
"Take me in, Sanders, old man; let me hang on here, will you? I've got
to get to New York as fast as you can take me."
Sanders nodded, the station signal had been given. He started out, and
Antony made himself as small as possible in the only available place
between the fireman, who was one of his special pals, and the engineer.
Sanders' face was towards his valves and brakes. He pulled out into the
driving sleet, scanning the tracks under the searchlight.
"What's up, Tony?" the fireman at his side asked him as they rolled out
into the night to the ringing of the bell. Fairfax handed him his
despatch and the fireman read it, and Fairfax answered him--
"A little cousin. One of my little cousins. What time are we due in New
York?"