CHAPTER XXIII.

THE PRESIDENT AND THE ENGINEER.

In five minutes it would be time for the Lightning Express train to start, and that was a very short time in which to fight the impending battle. Tommy was as unreasonable as a mule, and it was useless to attempt to conciliate him. Besides, I was tired of being buffeted by him. I was ashamed of my own servility, and much as I liked my occupation, I had deliberately come to the conclusion that it would be better for me to “hire out” for my board and clothes, than be a football for Tommy’s capricious toes. I had always treated him respectfully and kindly; but he had insulted me a dozen times within a month.

“Are you the president of the Lake Shore Railroad?” demanded Tommy, violently.

“I haven’t that honor,” I replied.

“Then it is not for you to say who shall and who shall not run on the engine.”

“That is very true; but it _is_ for me to say whether I will run on it myself or not. Tom Walton was regularly appointed by the superintendent to fire on this engine. He does his duty to my satisfaction.”

“Who appointed him? I never heard of his appointment till half an hour ago.”

Tom coolly took the letter of the superintendent from his pocket, and exhibited it to the president.

“If that isn’t all right, it isn’t my fault,” added the new fireman.

“That isn’t worth the paper it is written on,” said Tommy, his face red with wrath.

“What’s the reason it isn’t?” inquired Wetherstane. “I wrote it and signed it, and I am superintendent of the road.”

“Did you write that?” gasped Tommy.

“I did; and I’m superintendent of the Lake Shore Railroad,” answered Wetherstane, whose back was up.

“Without consulting me?”

“I didn’t know that the superintendent had to go to the president every time a new fireman was wanted. If Tom Walton isn’t fireman, then I’m not superintendent.”

“I won’t have Tom Walton on the road,” fumed Tommy, as he glanced at the fireman, who looked as good-natured as the quarter of an apple pie. “I’m president of this road.”

“And I’m superintendent,” retorted Wetherstane.

“Then I order you to discharge Tom Walton at once. If you appointed him, you did. Now discharge him.”

Wetherstane saw that he could not very well refuse to obey this order, since his right to appoint the obnoxious fireman was not now disputed.

“I’ll discharge him to-night, if you insist upon it,” said he, doggedly.

“I insist upon it now. Tom Walton, you are discharged,” added the president.

“I don’t want to make a row, and I guess I’ll be off,” whispered the new fireman to me.

“You can’t help yourself,” I replied; and he jumped down from the foot-board.

“All aboard!” shouted the gentlemanly conductor.

I let off steam, and stepped down from the locomotive. The conductor made the signal to start; but I did not heed it; I had lost my interest in the Lightning Express.

“All right! Go ahead!” said the conductor, impatiently, when his signal was disregarded.

“Jump on your engine, and go ahead,” added Tommy.

“I can’t run the engine without a fireman; and I would not if I could,” I replied; and I felt that I was vindicating myself.

“Do you mean to say you won’t run this train?” demanded Tommy.

“That is precisely what I mean. I won’t run it without Tom Walton. You discharged him on purpose to insult me.”

“Where’s Faxon?” asked Tommy, who seemed to be conscious, at last, that the train must go.

Faxon was in the station, and appeared to answer to his name.

“Faxon, you will run this train through,” continued Tommy.

“I don’t know how. I can run the dummy, but I don’t know anything about running a locomotive,” replied Faxon, who was among the number of those who were utterly disgusted with the tyranny of the president.

“We are five minutes behind time now,” fretted the conductor, who had come forward to learn the cause of the delay.

“Here comes Major Toppleton,” said half a dozen of the interested spectators.

The magnate bustled into the centre of the group, and Tommy told him I refused to run the train, and had taken that moment to spite him.

“My fireman has been discharged,” I replied.

“Tom Walton!” exclaimed the major.

“Yes, sir; turned out!” laughed Tom.

“This won’t do, Tommy,” said the great man, pulling out his watch.

“Tom Walton can’t run on this train,” replied the little president, decidedly.

“Let him go this trip, till we can arrange matters,” pleaded the father.

“No, sir; he shall not put foot on the engine again.”

“But we are losing the trip,” protested the major.

“I can’t help that.”

“Won’t you run this trip through to oblige me?” said the magnate, taking me aside.

“I can’t run it without a fireman,” I replied. “I will do anything to oblige you, sir; but Tommy means to ruin me if he can.”

“Start the train, and I will see that Tom Walton is with you as soon as you will need him,” added the great man, in a whisper.

“I will, sir.”

I jumped upon the engine, and started her, just ten minutes behind the time. I saw Major Toppleton take Tom Walton into the forward car with him, as I opened the throttle valve. The president also jumped upon the rear car, after the train started, as though he suspected the purpose of his disobedient father, and intended to defeat him. As the train went out of the station, Tom crawled over the tender, and took his place on the foot-board.

“Tommy is rather rough on me,” said he, with his usual good-natured smile.

“He is rough on almost everybody, and the roughest of all upon his own father,” I replied, as I let on more steam. “Fill up the furnace, Tom. We are behind time, and must make up ten minutes. We will make time as long as we are on the engine.”

In a few moments the train was flying down the gentle slope, and, by the time we came to the up grade beyond, Tom had steam enough to do anything of which the engine was capable. I knew that Tommy was in one of the cars, and I wondered that he did not stop the train, as by this time he must be aware that his father had disobeyed and evaded his peremptory mandate. I could hardly keep from laughing when I thought of the magnate of Middleport, so haughty and unyielding to others, bowing so low to his own son. It was simply ridiculous, and very ludicrous. But I had little doubt of the ultimate fate of Tom Walton and myself. The world was upside down on our side of the lake, and the great man had virtually become the little man.

I was not quite sure that Major Toppleton could help himself, after he had so often yielded to Tommy, and thus encouraged him to insist upon having his own way. After abandoning his fortress even once before, I did not see how he could hold it afterwards. But all this was a question between Tommy and his father, and they must fight it out themselves. My self-respect would not any longer allow me to be the victim of his petty tyranny. Yet I have no hesitation in saying that Tommy, if his wilfulness could have been subdued, would have been one of the best fellows in the world; and the sequel of my story will justify my belief.

I had no difficulty in making up the ten minutes we had lost by the president’s unseasonable demonstration, and at a quarter to ten I stopped the train at the ferry landing. I confess that my heart beat a lively tattoo against my ribs, as I saw the passengers hastening into the boat, for I dreaded a scene with Tommy and his father. I would have avoided it if I could, for I had no taste for disturbances. But neither Tommy nor his father appeared at once.

“Wolf, I don’t want you to get into trouble for my sake,” said Tom Walton. “I am willing to take myself off, and let you live in peace with Tommy.”

“Tommy don’t want peace with me. Ever since our affair at the Horse Shoe, he has been down upon me,” I replied. “I don’t know how the major prevailed upon him to let me stay as long as I have. But he has insulted me and domineered over me in every possible manner, and I have stood just as much of it as I can. If you were not a friend of mine, Tommy would not object to you.”

“Well, I don’t want to stand in your way, Wolf,” added Tom.

“You don’t stand in my way. If you are discharged, it will be for my sake. I think we had better hang together. If I can’t hold this place for you, I may be able to get you another quite as good.”

“Thank you, Wolf; you have always been a good friend, and I will do just what you say. If you think it would be best for me to go, I want you to say so.”

“I don’t think so. My mind is made up. If you can’t stay, I can’t; and I shall stick to my text to the end of time,” I replied, with sufficient emphasis to be understood.

The gentlemanly conductor, with the gold jewel, walked up to the engine at this moment, and interrupted our conversation.

“There’s going to be the jolliest row you ever heard of,” said he, chuckling as though he enjoyed the prospect.

“Where is the president?” I asked.

“He and his governor are talking over the matter in the car. The little gentleman made an awful tempest on the train, and all the passengers laughed, and enjoyed the fun. The president is going to have his own way, or drown himself in the lake,” laughed the conductor.

I learned that this remark was “founded on facts,” and it was evident that Tommy had not forgotten his old tricks. I stood on the engine, expecting the crash every moment; but I was ready for it.

The dummy, in charge of Lewis Holgate, stood on the track ahead of the locomotive, prepared to follow our train. Tommy and his father seemed to be having a hard time of it, for neither of them had appeared when the boat from the other side returned, and I concluded that the scene was to be deferred till a more convenient season. As the passengers were getting into the cars, I saw the major go on board of the steamer, which immediately started for the other side. A moment later Tommy approached the engine, attended by Lewis Holgate.

“Our time has come, Tom,” I whispered to my companion.

“Now, Tom Walton, you will get off that engine, or the baggage masters shall pitch you off,” began the president.

“I got off before when you told me,” replied Tom, laughing. “I always obey orders.”

“Of course you include me in the order,” I added.

“I don’t include you, Wolf Penniman; but you will find that you are not the president of the Lake Shore Railroad, and can’t dictate to me. If you are mean enough to leave, after all we have done for you, you can do so.”

I was mean enough to leave after all they had done for me, and stepped down upon the platform.

“Just as you like; but don’t let me see you round this road again,” continued Tommy, his face red with anger.

I walked away with Tom Walton.