But when he was outside of the door, he did not turn toward Stillwell’s. He went down the garden path instead, stooping now and then to a plant or vine, patting the mold with slow fingers. At the end of the garden he dropped to his knees, feeling cautiously along the bed that skirted the high board fence.... “Coming on fine,” he said, “and hollyhocks is what she wanted most of all.” His fingers strayed among them, picking off dead leaves, straightening stems and propping them with bits of stick. While he worked he talked to himself, a kind of mumbling chant, and sometimes he lifted himself a little and looked about the garden, much as a muskrat sits upon its haunches and watches the outer world for a moment before it dives again to its home. Once he looked up to the sky and his fingers ceased their work, his face wore a passive look. Kneeling there in the half-light, his big face lifted and the fragrance of the garden rising about him, he seemed to wait for something. Then his face dropped and his fingers groped again among the plants. By-and-by he got to his feet, stamping a little to shake out the stiffness. “It ’s better for the boy,” he said humbly. “I ’ll go see Stillwell right off.” VI The special was halting, with little puffs, and the president swung down from the steps. He looked about him with a nervous, running glance up and down the platform. If the boy were not here, he could not wait.... “Hello!” He laid his hands on a pair of broad shoulders that pushed toward him out of the dusk. “I want you--right off!” “All right, sir, I’m coming.” There was a note of joy in the voice that warmed the older man’s heart. “You ’re ready, are you?” He had turned toward the steps, with quick motion. The boy laughed a little, hurrying beside him. “Not tonight. I must wait. There are things--” The president paused, one foot on the step, glaring at him. “What things--Telegraph--” He waved a hand toward the office. “It is n’t that.” The boy spoke quickly, the puffs from the engine driving his words aside. Nothing could seem important except that great engine, panting to be off, and the nervous man gripping the rail at his side. “It is n’t that, sir. It is my mother and the moving. I must see to that first.” “Oh, they ’re coming, are they?” The hand on the rail relaxed. “Yes, sir.” The president stepped back to the platform. He made an impatient gesture to the engineer and turned to the boy. “How long do you want?” It was the old, sharp tone. But the boy smiled, looking at him with shining eyes. “We might walk up and down,” he suggested. “Oh, walk--if you want to!” growled Simeon. He fell into a quick trot, matching the boy’s stride. “Things are bad down there!” He jerked out the words. “Damn fool work!” “Yes, sir.” “And the fault’s here.” He nodded toward the maze of tracks that stretched away in the dark. “Tomlinson is an old man,” said the boy. “Old fool!” retorted the other. “Must have been asleep--drunk!”