But neither Allan nor his companion paid much attention to these explanations. For the moment, they were more interested in each other than in anything else. A sudden comradeship, born in the first glance they exchanged, had arisen between them; a mutual feeling that they would like to know each other--a prevision of friendship. "My name is Anderson," the boy was saying, his hand outstretched; "my first name is James--but my friends call me Jim." "And my name is Allan West," responded Allan, clasping the proffered hand in a warm grip. "Oho!" cried Jim, with a start of surprise, "so you're Allan West! Well, I've always wanted to know you, but I never thought you'd introduce yourself like this!" "Always wanted to know me?" repeated Allan in bewilderment. "How could that be?" "Hero-worship, my boy!" explained Jim, grinning at Allan's blush. "Do you suppose there's a man on this road who hasn't heard of your exploits? And to hero-worship there is now added a lively sense of gratitude, since you arrived just in time to save me from being converted into a grease-spot. But there--the rest will keep for another time. Where do you live?" "At Jack Welsh's house," answered Allan; "just back of the yards yonder." "All right, my friend," said Jim. "I'll take the liberty of paying you a call before very long. I only hope you'll be at home." "I surely will, if you'll let me know when to look for you," answered Allan, heartily. "But I've got some letters here for the master-mechanic--I mustn't waste any more time." "Well!" said Jim, smiling, "I don't think you've been exactly wasting your time--though of course there might be a difference of opinion about that. But there he comes now," and he nodded toward the tall figure of the master-mechanic, who had heard of the accident and was hastening to investigate it. Allan handed him his letters, which he thrust absently into his pocket, as he listened with bent head to the foreman's account of the mishap. Allan did not wait to hear it, but, conscious that the errand was taking longer than it should, hurried on to deliver the other letters. This was accomplished in a very few minutes, and he was soon back again at his desk in the trainmaster's office. He spent the next half-hour in sorting the mail which had accumulated there. The trainmaster was busy dictating letters to his stenographer, wading through the mass of correspondence before him with a rapidity born of long experience. Allan never ceased to be astonished at the vast quantity of mail which poured in and out of the office--letters upon every conceivable subject connected with the operation of the road--reports of all sorts, inquiries, complaints, requisitions--all of which had to be carefully attended to if the business of the road was to move smoothly.