"I don't think he understood what he ought to do, and there was no time
to explain."
Fuller nodded. "So you did it yourself! But why didn't you push the car?
You could have held her up better then."
"I couldn't get behind it. The loop-track down at the switches has caved
in."
"I see. But it's a stiff grade and you didn't seem to be hustling your
engine much."
"The boiler was priming and I was afraid of the cylinders."
"Just so. You pumped up the water pretty high?"
"No; it was at the usual working level," said Dick, who paused and
resumed thoughtfully: "I can't account for the thing. Why does a boiler
prime?"
There are one or two obvious reasons for a boiler's priming; that is to
say, throwing water as well as steam into the engine, but this sometimes
happens when no cause can be assigned, and Fuller saw that Dick did not
expect an answer to his question. It was rather an exclamation, prompted
by his failure to solve a fascinating problem, and as such indicated that
his interest in his task was not confined to the earning of a living.
Fuller recognized the mind of the engineer.
"Well," he replied, "there's a good deal we don't know yet about the
action of fluids under pressure. But do you find the grade awkward when
she's steaming properly?"
"I can get up. Still, I think it will soon cost you as much in extra fuel
as it would to relay this bit of line. Two hundred cubic yards cut out at
the bend would make things much easier."
"Two hundred yards?" said Fuller, studying the spot.
"Two hundred and fifty at the outside," Dick answered confidently, and
then felt embarrassed as he saw Miss Fuller for the first time. His
clothes were few and dirty and he was awkwardly conscious that his hands
and face were black. But his employer claimed his attention.
"What would you reckon the weight of the stuff?"
Dick told him after a short silence, and Fuller asked: "Two-thousand-pound
tons?"
"Yes; I turned it into American weight."
"Well," said Fuller, "you must get on with your job now, but come up to
my tent after supper."
Dick started his locomotive, and when it panted away up the incline
Fuller looked at his daughter with a smile.
"What do you think of that young man?"
"He has a nice face. Of course he's not the type one would expect to find
driving a locomotive."
"Pshaw!" said Fuller. "I'm not talking about his looks."
"Nor am I, in the way you mean," Ida rejoined. "I thought he looked
honest, though perhaps reliable is nearest what I felt. Then he was very
professional."
Fuller nodded. "That's what I like. The man who puts his job before what
he gets for it naturally makes the best work. What do you think of his
manner?"