“Why, Boy--” He turned his head a little, listening--The shrill whistle had sounded--“What’s that!” “Some train at Dunlop’s” said John. The train beneath them seemed gathering itself in mighty leaps. In the cab, the old engineer, with tense body and set teeth, laughed grimly--“I ’ll bring him in--_I ’ll bring him in!_” The miles leaped behind them, flying. And behind them the express pounded heavily--soulless--massive--blind... five miles now--three--And the Scotchman laughed with the great lurches of his cab-- The lights of the upper station flashed past... then the lights of the yard... he threw the lever swiftly into place. The roar slackened and fell and ceased. The special was gliding easily down to her berth in the terminal shed. The express, under control now, halted at the upper station, her blind eye glimmering through the dusk toward the little train that ran--smooth--safe, on its way. She gave a shrill cry--and puffed--impatient to be off. Simeon put away the map in his pocket. He looked out into the busy yard as they drew in--little lights... slow-pulling freights--busy engines puffing up and down--smoke and grime. His own work. His heart leaped to it as he stepped from the car, and he lifted up his face to the great train shed--as in some great cathedral one looks up--and waits.... Whirling, drifting smoke--soaring and shimmering into the high roof.... Bells and voices and the sound of murmured calls... crimson torches flaring--skimming along the platforms--diving under engines--with hungry, peering eyes.... He took it in for a moment with deep, full breath before they swung down the platform. Beside the engine an old man was bending with flaring torch, thrusting it into the heart of her, searching with careful eye for any harm that had come. “Oh--Tomlinson!” said John. The figure straightened itself and wheeled about, torch in hand.... His glance fell on the President of the Road and he stepped forward, a solemn look in the keen, blue eyes. He reached out a gaunt hand. The face, beneath its grime, held a deep, quiet power--“I forgi’e ye, Simeon Tetlow,” he said slowly. “I forgi’e ye,--now.” The President of the Road took the grimy hand in his, with firm grip. “It ’s all right, Tomlinson, all right.” He stood for a moment looking up at the tall figure, covered with oil and dirt--the smoke-stained face full of a kind of dignity.... “You brought us down fast, Tomlinson,” said the President of the Road with a little smile. “Aye, I brought ye fast,” said Tomlinson. But there was no smile in the words. He was gazing over their heads at something beyond them. The express had come to rest in the next berth and the great engine loomed above them--breathing softly--full of pride and strength.