“La, Gordon,” some one yawned, “you’re a poetic soul!” “Well, I believe in that engineer,” he defended. “Next time I go down to the village I’m going to find out who blows that thing and why he does it.” He did go down to the village and he did learn the secret of the whistle. It made a neat little story. The whistle was a code signal, of a surety, and of precisely the sort that Gordon figured it was. He knew his Virginia. A fellow named George Roberts was the engineer of that freight, and his imitation of “Annie Laurie” was truly a signal—to a sweetheart of his. Rough devil at one time, this man Roberts, a tearing drinker and fighter, he was fast on the way to ruin and discharge, when he fell in love with this girl and braced up. Now every time he passed the little house where she lived he tooted his whistle like that in salutation. “To let her know he’s safe,” Gordon finished. Of course we charged him with making it up, but in the end we came to believe him. Every day for four weeks that whistle blew, always in the same way, always in the same place, and always on the dot. And somehow it had a sobering and softening effect upon the crowd of woodsmen that we were. The men quarreled less frequently, I noticed, were more considerate and helpful to each other. I swear we all felt the influence of that engineer. I’ll wager every man jack of us meant on going home to be a bit the more thoughtful to the wife. It cheered us all, that little touch of honest romance. The world seemed a bit the better for it. We even took to timing our supper not by Jemima’s bell but by George Roberts’ whistle. Then another strange thing happened. The signal ceased. The first time we missed it we could scarcely believe our ears. But on the second day it was silent, and the next. At the right time the train crossed the notch, but no puffs came from the engine, no sound from the whistle. It gave us a drop. The world was as drab as ever. The cynics, of course, spoke up at once. “Guess your friend the engineer is no better than the rest of us,” one of them jeered at Gordon. “He couldn’t keep it up.” “Drunk again, probably,” jeered another. “Maybe it’s only a little lovers’ tiff,” I argued in Gordon’s support. “I’m going to find out,” Gordon finished the discussion. And he did. Made a special errand to the village to find out. And returned with a smile. “They’re married,” he reported. “Off on their honeymoon. They’ll be back in a week. Watch for the signal then.” He was right. In a week the signal was resumed, but in another place. “How’s that?” one of the men still girded at Gordon. “Guess he’s learned to respect his wife’s throwing arm. He pipes up now from a more respectful distance.” “That’s easy,” Gordon let the caviller down gently. “He’s set her up in a little house farther along the line. Naturally that’s where he would whistle now.”