“I didn’t know that the superintendent had to go to the president every time a new fireman was wanted. If Tom Walton isn’t fireman, then I’m not superintendent.” “I won’t have Tom Walton on the road,” fumed Tommy, as he glanced at the fireman, who looked as good-natured as the quarter of an apple pie. “I’m president of this road.” “And I’m superintendent,” retorted Wetherstane. “Then I order you to discharge Tom Walton at once. If you appointed him, you did. Now discharge him.” Wetherstane saw that he could not very well refuse to obey this order, since his right to appoint the obnoxious fireman was not now disputed. “I’ll discharge him to-night, if you insist upon it,” said he, doggedly. “I insist upon it now. Tom Walton, you are discharged,” added the president. “I don’t want to make a row, and I guess I’ll be off,” whispered the new fireman to me. “You can’t help yourself,” I replied; and he jumped down from the foot-board. “All aboard!” shouted the gentlemanly conductor. I let off steam, and stepped down from the locomotive. The conductor made the signal to start; but I did not heed it; I had lost my interest in the Lightning Express. “All right! Go ahead!” said the conductor, impatiently, when his signal was disregarded. “Jump on your engine, and go ahead,” added Tommy. “I can’t run the engine without a fireman; and I would not if I could,” I replied; and I felt that I was vindicating myself. “Do you mean to say you won’t run this train?” demanded Tommy. “That is precisely what I mean. I won’t run it without Tom Walton. You discharged him on purpose to insult me.” “Where’s Faxon?” asked Tommy, who seemed to be conscious, at last, that the train must go. Faxon was in the station, and appeared to answer to his name. “Faxon, you will run this train through,” continued Tommy. “I don’t know how. I can run the dummy, but I don’t know anything about running a locomotive,” replied Faxon, who was among the number of those who were utterly disgusted with the tyranny of the president. “We are five minutes behind time now,” fretted the conductor, who had come forward to learn the cause of the delay. “Here comes Major Toppleton,” said half a dozen of the interested spectators. The magnate bustled into the centre of the group, and Tommy told him I refused to run the train, and had taken that moment to spite him. “My fireman has been discharged,” I replied. “Tom Walton!” exclaimed the major. “Yes, sir; turned out!” laughed Tom. “This won’t do, Tommy,” said the great man, pulling out his watch. “Tom Walton can’t run on this train,” replied the little president, decidedly. “Let him go this trip, till we can arrange matters,” pleaded the father. “No, sir; he shall not put foot on the engine again.” “But we are losing the trip,” protested the major. “I can’t help that.” “Won’t you run this trip through to oblige me?” said the magnate, taking me aside.