Jim broke out again:--

"Beg pardon, sir. If I've said anything you don't like, sorry for it.
It's because Mr. Surrey is so good an employer, and, if you'll let me
say so, because I like you so well," glancing over him
admiringly,--"for, you see, a good engineer takes to a clean-built
machine wherever he sees it,--it's just because of this I thought it was
better to tell you, and get you to tell the boss, and to save any row;
for I'd hate mortally to have it in this shop where I've worked, man and
boy, so many years. Will you please to speak to him, sir? and I hope you
understand."

"Thank you, Jim. Yes, I understand; and I'll speak to him."

Was it that the sun was going down, or that some clouds were in the sky,
or had the air of the shop oppressed him? Whatever it was, as he came
out he walked with a slower step from which some of the spring had gone,
and the people's faces looked not so happy; and, glancing down at his
rosebud, he saw that its fair petals had been soiled by the smoke and
grime in which he had been standing; and, while he looked a dead march
came solemnly sounding up the street, and a soldier's funeral went
by,--rare enough, in that autumn of 1860, to draw a curious crowd on
either side; rare enough to make him pause and survey it; and as the
line turned into another street, and the music came softened to his ear,
he once more hummed the words of the song which had been haunting him
all the day:--

"Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine;
Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, call