"But he may ask why you didn't come. He always does, unless you give notice the night before." "Your mother told you I was going away, and that is enough for you to tell him. You needn't let it trouble you, anyway; just attend to your duties and say nothing to anybody. Remember that it is a responsible business to have full charge of a thousand-hose-power engine and nine boilers, and something that not many boys of seventeen are trusted to run even for a day or two at a time." "I know that, father, and that is why I wanted to know what to say to the superintendent." "I have told you all you need to say, and more, unless you are asked." "All right, sir. I--I hope you will have good luck, father, and--good-by." Mr. Kendall seemed not to have heard the parting wish of his son; he certainly did not return the good-by. And mingled with the feeling of satisfaction at being intrusted with the care of the great engine was a sensation of vague uneasiness on account of his father's singular behavior. The fireman was there before him, waiting to be let into the boiler-room, for the engineer always kept the keys. He was a big, brawny Yorkshire Englishman, with a scar across one cheek, and, to add to the ugliness of his face, he had only one good eye. Over the other he always wore a green patch. "Hi, my lad, is thy feyther sick?" was Joe Cuttle's salutation as Larry unlocked the door, and they went into the long boiler-room. "No, sir," was the reply, remembering his father's wish that he say, nothing about the matter except to the superintendent. "I'm a little late," he continued, as he glanced at the steam gauges; "so you will have to put on the draught and get up steam fast as you can." "All right, Larry. I was waiting for thee this ten minutes," said Cuttle. He clanged his shovel on the hard stone floor and rattled the furnace doors, while Larry tried the steam-cocks and then let the water into the glass gauges, as he had done many times before. Then he unlocked the door into the engine-room and left Joe to shovel in the coal and regulate the draughts. The engine--or engines, for there were two of the same power whose pistons turned the same great fly-wheel--glistened a welcome to Larry, and it seemed to him that they looked brighter even than usual upon this clear September morning. He began wiping them off with a handful of cotton waste, adding, if possible, to the polished brightness of the powerful arms and cylinders; but, before he had finished the work, a gruff voice caused him to look up. "You, is it?" the voice questioned. The speaker was a young man of twenty-three, who was employed in the works. Larry had seen him a great many times, for he was always loitering about in the boiler and engine rooms when his father was away.