"Murphy's firing the big eleven for sixteen from Truesdale. You might take
that."

"Got a good man to run it?" asked Jim.

"Jawn Donohue's on the switch engine," replied the operator. "He knows the
road."

Jim dimly remembered the name Donohue. Somewhat more than a year before
his manager had reduced a man of that name for crippling an engine on a
flying switch.

"He's the best man you could get, Mr. Weeks," said the agent, and turning,
he ran down the platform toward the freight house. Jim called after him:--

"He's got to connect at Manchester with the twelve o'clock for Chicago."

Jawn's dumpy little engine was blowing off on a siding. Jawn was oiling.
He was a short man, filling out his wide overalls with an in-'em-to-stay
appearance. His beard was brushy, his eyes were lost in a gray tangle of
brows and lashes, and he chewed the stem of a cob pipe.

"Jawn," said the agent, excitedly, "get eleven up to the platform quick!"

Jawn turned around, lowered the oil-can, and looked at the nervous agent
with impassive eyes.

"Why?" he said slowly.