"You've got to connect with Manchester at twelve o'clock."

Jawn replaced his pipe.

"Wait till I kick them empties in on the house track. Who's it for?"

"Don't stop for that! It's the President!"

Jawn grunted, and walked deliberately across the tracks and into the
roundhouse, followed by his fireman. Murphy, the hostler, was hovering
about the big throbbing locomotive, putting a final polish on the oil-cups
and piston-rods. Jawn, without a word, climbed into the cab, and out over
the tender, where he lifted the tank lid and peered down at the water.

"Never mind that," the agent called. "You can water up at Byron."

Jawn slowly clambered over the coal and leaned against the doorway,
packing the tobacco firmly into his pipe with his fire-proof little
finger.

"Young man," he said gruffly, "I run this engine for four years without
taking water between here and Manchester, and I reckon I can do it agin."
Then he pulled her slowly out of the roundhouse.

In the meantime, the operator had sent this message to the train
despatcher at Manchester:--

Want right of way over everything. Pres. coming on light engine.

To which the despatcher replied:--