“We won’t lose him this trip, thank God!” said Mrs. Magraw. “Mr. Schofield was over jist now t’ see if they was anything he could do. He says th’ road’ll make it all roight with Reddy.” “That’s good!” said Jack, heartily; “but we won’t keep you any longer, Mrs. Magraw,” and he and Allan said good night. “We must be gittin’ t’ bed ourselves,” Jack added, as they mounted the path to his home. “Remember, we have t’ git up at midnight. It’s good an’ sleepy you’ll be, my boy!” “No, I won’t!” laughed Allan. “But I’ll turn in now, anyway.” It seemed to him that he had been asleep only a few minutes when he heard Jack’s voice calling. But he was out of bed as soon as he got his eyes open, and got into his clothes as quickly as he could in the darkness. Mary had a hot lunch waiting by the time he got down-stairs. He and Jack ate a little,—one doesn’t have much appetite at midnight,—and together they made their way across the yards to the station, where they caught the fast mail for the city. The smoking-car of the train was crowded with section-men on their way to the rendezvous, and a jolly, good-natured lot they were. There was no thought of sleep, for this was a holiday for them,—besides, sleep was out of the question in that tumult,—and one story of the rail followed another. As Allan listened, he wondered at these tales of heroism and daring told so lightly—of engineers sticking to their posts though certain death stared them in the face; of crossing-flagmen saving the lives of careless men and women, at the cost, often, of their own; of break-in-twos, washouts, head-end collisions, of confusion of orders and mistakes of despatchers—all the lore that gathers about the life of the rail. And as he listened, the longing came to him to prove himself worthy of this brotherhood. One story, in particular, stuck in Allan’s memory. “Then there was Tom Rawlinson,” began one of the men. “Let Pat tell that story,” interrupted another. “Come out here, Pat. We want t’ hear about Tom Rawlinson an’ his last trip on th’ Two-twenty-four.” So Pat came out, shyly, a tall, raw-boned man. As he got within the circle of light, Allan saw that his face was frightfully scarred. “’Twas in th’ summer o’ ninety-two,” he began. “Rawlinson had had th’ Two-twenty-four about a month, an’ was as proud of her as a man is of his first baby. That day he was takin’ a big excursion train in to Parkersburg. He was lettin’ me ride in th’ cab, which he hadn’t any bus’ness t’ do, but Tom Rawlinson was th’ biggest-hearted man that ever pulled a lever on this road.” He paused a moment, and his listeners gravely nodded their approval of the sentiment.