For an instant, Allan scarcely understood. He sat as one stunned by a terrific blow. Then the truth burst upon him like a lightning-flash. He had overlooked the order; two of the flimsy pieces of tissue-paper had stuck together, and he had not perceived it! The accident, had it occurred, would have been his fault; that it did not occur was due to no act of his, but to some mysterious, unexplainable Providence. Morally, he was as guilty as though the trains had dashed together at full speed. Even now, because of his carelessness, they might have been one piled-up mass of twisted iron and splintered wood, with a score of human beings buried in the wreckage. The utter horror of the thought turned him a little dizzy. Then he arose, and took down his coat.

“What are you going to do?” demanded the trainmaster, who had been watching him closely.

“There’s only one thing for me to do, isn’t there?” asked Allan, with a wan little smile. "That is to get out. I see I’m not fit for anything ? 151 ? better than section-work, after all. I’ll ask Jack Welsh for my old job—that is, if the road will have me."

“Sit down,” commanded Mr. Schofield, sternly. He saw how overwrought the boy was. “There’s no use jumping at conclusions. Besides, you’ve got to stay your trick out here, no matter how guilty you are. There’s your call now,” he added, as the key sounded.

Allan answered it mechanically, took down the message, repeated it, and had it O. K.’d. By the time that was done, he had partially regained his self-control.

“Of course I’ll serve out the trick,” he said. “But I didn’t suppose I’d ever have a chance to serve another. A mistake like that deserves the severest punishment you can inflict.”

“You mean you think Nevins left the order on the hook and that you overlooked it?”

“Certainly,” said the boy. “How else could it have happened?”

“I don’t know. But neither can I understand how you could have overlooked it if you were at all careful. There are only three others on the hook.”

“I wasn’t as careful as I should have been,” said Allan in a low voice, “that’s certain.”

He was sure that he, and he only, had been at fault. Any other explanation seemed ridiculous.

“Did Nevins say anything about this train when you came on duty?” pursued the trainmaster.

? 152 ?

Allan made a mighty effort at recollection.

“No,” he said, at last; “I’m sure he didn’t. We talked a moment about the special, and he spoke of the heavy day’s work he’d had. That was all. If he’d said he had an order for it, I certainly shouldn’t have forgotten it right away.”

“Then Nevins broke the rules, too,” said Mr. Schofield, and got out his book of rules. “The second paragraph on page seventy-six reads as follows: ‘When both day and night operators are employed, one must not leave his post until relieved by the other, and the one going off duty must inform the one coming on respecting unfinished business and the position of trains.’”

“He waited until I had looked over the orders,” said Allan, with a lively remembrance of Nevins’s attitude toward that particular rule. “He supposed that I could read, and if there was anything I didn’t understand I’d have asked him.”

Mr. Schofield put his book back into his pocket, and got out another cigar. His nerves were jangling badly, and he felt the need of something to quiet them.

“Well,” he said, at last, “I’m sorry.”

And Allan bowed his head. He accepted the sentence of dismissal which the words implied; it was just. He saw all the air-castles which he had builded so hopefully come tumbling about him; he was overwhelmed in the ruins. He realized that there was no future for him in railroading; no place at the top. He had forfeited his right to serve the road, to expect promotion, by that one mistake, that one piece of carelessness. At least, he told himself, it had taught him a lesson, and one that he would never forget. It had taught him—
“IN THE NEXT INSTANT THE TALL FIGURE HAD BEEN FLUNG VIOLENTLY INTO THE ROOM.”

? 153 ?

Some one stumbled heavily up the steps to the door, and Mr. Schofield uttered a sharp exclamation of astonishment. Allan started around to see upon the threshold the strangest apparition his eyes had ever rested on.

Two figures stood there so daubed with mud, so bedraggled with dirty water, so torn and bruised and soiled as scarcely to resemble human beings. One was tall and thin, the other not so tall and much heavier. The shorter figure held the tall one by the back of the neck in a grip so tight and merciless that such of the latter’s face as was visible through its coating of mud was convulsed and purple. One eye was closed and swollen, while the other seemed starting from its socket. Both men had lost their hats, and their hair was matted with mud, reddened, in the case of the shorter one, with blood.

All this Allan saw at a glance, for in the next instant, the tall figure had been flung violently into the room, while the other entered after him, closed the door, and stood leaning against it, breathing heavily.

For a moment, not a word was spoken. The trainmaster and Allan stared in amazement from one ? 154 ? of these strange figures to the other. The tall one lay where he had fallen, gasping for breath; the other, having recovered somewhat, got out a handkerchief from some recess, and made an ineffectual effort to blow his nose. Then, as he caught the expression of the others’ faces, he grinned so broadly that some of the mud on his cheeks cracked and scaled off.

“Ye don’t happen t’ have a bath-tub handy, do ye, Allan?” he inquired, in a voice so familiar that the boy jumped in his chair, and even Mr. Schofield started perceptibly.

“Jack!” cried Allan. “Why, what—”

He stopped, unable to go on, breathless with sheer astonishment.

“Is it really you, Welsh?” asked the trainmaster.

“Yes, Misther Schofield; it’s me, or what’s left o’ me,” said Jack, passing his hand ruefully over his head, and gazing down at his tattered garments.

“And who’s this?” asked the trainmaster, with a gesture toward the prostrate figure on the floor.

“I don’t know th’ dirty scoundrel’s name,” answered Jack, “but you’ll know him, I reckon, as soon as we scrape th’ mud off. But afore I tell th’ story, I would loike t’ wash up.”

“All right,” said Allan, starting from his chair, “here you are,” and he poured some water from a bucket into a wash-pan which stood on a soap-box beside the window. A towel hung from a roller on ? 155 ? the wall, and a piece of soap lay on the window-sill. It was here he washed up every night before he ate his midnight lunch.

Jack took off the remains of his coat, one sleeve of which had been torn out............