“_I_ know! Since William the Conqueror came over, or King Charles hid in her smoke-stack. You’re as bad as the rest of these Britishers. If she’s been run all that while, it’s time she was flagged once or twice.” The American was beginning to ooze out all over Wilton, and his small-boned hands were moving restlessly. “Suppose you flagged the Empire State Express, or the Western Cyclone?” “Suppose I did. I know Otis Harvey—or used to. I’d send him a wire, and he’d understand it was a ground-hog case with me. That’s exactly what I told this British fossil company here.” “Have you been answering their letters without legal advice, then?” “Of course I have.” “Oh, my Sainted Country! Go ahead, Wilton.” “I wrote ’em that I’d be very happy to see their president and explain to him in three words all about it; but that wouldn’t do. ’Seems their president must be a god. He was too busy, and—well, you can read for yourself—they wanted explanations. The stationmaster at Amberley Royal—and he grovels before me, as a rule—wanted an explanation, and quick, too. The head sachem at St. Botolph’s wanted three or four, and the Lord High Mukkamuk that oils the locomotives wanted one every fine day. I told ’em—I’ve told ’em about fifty times—I stopped their holy and sacred train because I wanted to board her. Did they think I wanted to feel her pulse?” “You didn’t say that?” “‘Feel her pulse’? Of course not.” “No. ‘Board her.’” “What else could I say?” “My dear Wilton, what is the use of Mrs. Sherborne, and the Clays, and all that lot working over you for four years to make an Englishman out of you, if the very first time you’re rattled you go back to the vernacular?” “I’m through with Mrs. Sherborne and the rest of the crowd. America’s good enough for me. What ought I to have said? ‘Please,’ or ‘thanks awf’ly’ or how?” There was no chance now of mistaking the man’s nationality. Speech, gesture, and step, so carefully drilled into him, had gone away with the borrowed mask of indifference. It was a lawful son of the Youngest People, whose predecessors were the Red Indian. His voice had risen to the high, throaty crow of his breed when they labour under excitement. His close-set eyes showed by turns unnecessary fear, annoyance beyond reason, rapid and purposeless flights of thought, the child’s lust for immediate revenge, and the child’s pathetic bewilderment, who knocks his head against the bad, wicked table. And on the other side, I knew, stood the Company, as unable as Wilton to understand. “And I could buy their old road three times over,” he muttered, playing with a paper-knife, and moving restlessly to and fro. “You didn’t tell ’em _that_, I hope!”