“We ain't so much CROSS,” said the fireman, “as interested like. It ain't every day a little gell tumbles into our coal bunker outer the sky, is it, Bill? What did you DO it for--eh?” “That's the point,” agreed the engine-driver; “what did you do it FOR?” Bobbie found that she had not quite stopped crying. The engine-driver patted her on the back and said: “Here, cheer up, Mate. It ain't so bad as all that 'ere, I'll be bound.” “I wanted,” said Bobbie, much cheered to find herself addressed as 'Mate'--“I only wanted to ask you if you'd be so kind as to mend this.” She picked up the brown-paper parcel from among the coals and undid the string with hot, red fingers that trembled. Her feet and legs felt the scorch of the engine fire, but her shoulders felt the wild chill rush of the air. The engine lurched and shook and rattled, and as they shot under a bridge the engine seemed to shout in her ears. The fireman shovelled on coals. Bobbie unrolled the brown paper and disclosed the toy engine. “I thought,” she said wistfully, “that perhaps you'd mend this for me--because you're an engineer, you know.” The engine-driver said he was blowed if he wasn't blest. “I'm blest if I ain't blowed,” remarked the fireman. But the engine-driver took the little engine and looked at it--and the fireman ceased for an instant to shovel coal, and looked, too. “It's like your precious cheek,” said the engine-driver--“whatever made you think we'd be bothered tinkering penny toys?” “I didn't mean it for precious cheek,” said Bobbie; “only everybody that has anything to do with railways is so kind and good, I didn't think you'd mind. You don't really--do you?” she added, for she had seen a not unkindly wink pass between the two. “My trade's driving of an engine, not mending her, especially such a hout-size in engines as this 'ere,” said Bill. “An' 'ow are we a-goin' to get you back to your sorrowing friends and relations, and all be forgiven and forgotten?” “If you'll put me down next time you stop,” said Bobbie, firmly, though her heart beat fiercely against her arm as she clasped her hands, “and lend me the money for a third-class ticket, I'll pay you back--honour bright. I'm not a confidence trick like in the newspapers--really, I'm not.” “You're a little lady, every inch,” said Bill, relenting suddenly and completely. “We'll see you gets home safe. An' about this engine--Jim--ain't you got ne'er a pal as can use a soldering iron? Seems to me that's about all the little bounder wants doing to it.” “That's what Father said,” Bobbie explained eagerly. “What's that for?” She pointed to a little brass wheel that he had turned as he spoke. “That's the injector.” “In--what?” “Injector to fill up the boiler.” “Oh,” said Bobbie, mentally registering the fact to tell the others; “that IS interesting.”