“Just legs and arms,” said Simeon. He laid his hand in passing on the boy’s shoulder. “I’d rather have legs and arms--good ones--than any heads I know of--except my own,” he added laughing. “When do we go?” “I brought down the special last night. She’s at Bridgewater.” “Stetson with her! That ’s good. We start tonight--Get there at ten--Sleep home--Ready for business.” John smiled at the old, quick orders and went out to set them in motion. He looked up to the clear, keen sky with a sudden lightness of heart. A new day had come. Perhaps the tortoise had something the same feeling when Atlas stooped his shoulder to the world. By night, the little house was stripped of its belongings. Some of them were packed in bags and boxes and the rest were to be stored in the loft overhead. The boughs of spruce and hemlock and pine had been taken down from the walls and burned in the fireplace during the day. The room was filled with the sweet, pungent odor. At the last minute John had hurried to the woods and brought back an armful of fresh boughs--spruce and pine, hemlock and blue-berried cedar--clustered thick--and trailing green vines. He tossed them lightly into the back of the sleigh and sprang in. The special was waiting on the siding. They saw the little, flying puffs rise from her and float on the clear air.... Stetson was ready--with steam up--They would be off at once. The baggage master came forward to help with the bags. He spoke a word in John’s ear as he passed him. The young man glanced quickly toward the engine that puffed and chugged at the head of the little train. He helped Simeon into the car and hurried forward. The man standing by the engine looked at him with troubled eyes. “He’s sick,” he said slowly, as John came up. “He was took bad just after he came down.” He nodded toward the baggage room, “He told me to fire Up--ready to go ahead. Said you’d know what to do.” The young man turned toward the baggage room. The engineer, out of a heap of blankets, spread across some trunks, regarded him somberly. “I can’t do it,” he said, “I don’t dare. It gripes too hard when it comes. It’s easier now, for a minute--But it ’ll come back.” He writhed a little as he spoke. “You must n’t stay here,” said John quickly. He looked about him. The man put out a hand. “I’m going,” he said, “as soon as she starts. I waited for you.” John nodded. “Is there anyone--on the others?” He motioned toward the yard. The man shook his head gloomily--“Freights,” he said. A kind of subtle pride underran the words--“I would n’t trust ’em with Her.” The young man lifted his head--A swift thought had crossed his face. “I saw Tomlinson on the street as we drove in--Could he-?” The man stared at him--“Old Tomlinson?” Justice weighed in the tone. “You can ask him,” he said grudgingly at last. “He ’s all right for it?” questioned John.