Run to Manchester extra regardless of all trains.

When the engine finally rolled into the station Jim was pacing up and
down; he was as nearly impatient as Jim Weeks could be.

"You'll have to move faster than that," he said shortly, swinging himself
up the steps.

Jawn glanced at him without reply, then looked at his watch. It was twenty
minutes after ten. He laid his hand upon the throttle and pulled. There
was a gasp of steam, a whirring and slipping of the drive wheels, and the
engine plunged forward. Jawn fingered the lever with a lover's caress. He
knew old "eleven," every foot of her, every tube, bolt, and strap. As they
cleared the yards, he threw her wider and wider open until she was lunging
and lurching madly. The cinders beat a tattoo upon the cab, and Jim Weeks
crowded up into the corner. The fireman, a strapping young fellow, threw
in great shovels of coal with the regularity of a machine, pausing only to
wipe his forehead with the back of his hand as the heat grew intense. When
he opened the furnace door, Jim could see the glowing bed lift and stir
with the jolt of the engine.

Old Jawn, perched upon his high seat, never shifted his eyes from the
track ahead. His face wore the usual scowl, but betrayed no emotion.
Perhaps his teeth gripped the pipe-stem harder than usual, but then, it
was a pregnant hour for Jawn. The feel of the old pet under his hand made
his heart jump, and brought the hope that a successful run might lead him
back to his own. Jawn knew that he deserved something better than a switch
engine in the division yards, he knew that he was the best engineer on the
road, but he had steeled himself against hope. As they whirled past the