"First catch your hare," Antony said. "I have never had a turtle-dove,
never had a sweetheart since I fell from the cherry-tree."

Sounds that were now familiar to him came from outside, the ringing of
the bells as the locomotives drew through the storm, the high scream of
the whistles, the roll and rumble of the wheels and the calling of the
employer to the railroad hands as they passed to their duties outside
the shed. Fairfax left Louisiana and stopped singing. He threw open the
door of his furnace, and the water hissed and bubbled in the boiler. He
opened the cock and the escaping steam filled the engine-house and mixed
with the damp air.

Looking through the window of the cab, Fairfax saw a figure pass in
under the shed. It was a woman with a shawl over her head. He climbed
down out of the cab; the woman threw the shawl back, he saw the head and
dress.

"Why, Miss Molly!" he exclaimed. He thought she had come for Sanders.

She held out a yellow envelope, but even though she knew she brought him
news and that he would not think of her, her big eyes fastened on him
were eloquent. Fairfax did not answer their appeal. He tore open the
telegram.

"I brought it myself," she murmured. "I hope it ain't bad news."

He tore it open with hands stained with grease and oil. He read it in
the light of his cab lamp, read it twice, and a man who was hanging
around for a job felt the fireman of Number Forty-one grasp his arm.

"Tell Joe Mead to take you to-night to fire for him--tell him I've got
bad news. I'm going to New York."

"It's too bad," said the other cheerfully. "I'll tell him."

Fairfax had gone flying on his well foot and his lame foot like a
jackdaw. He was out of the shed without a word to Molly Shannon.

"Your felly's got bad news," said the man, and, keenly delighted with
his sudden luck, climbed agilely into the cab of Number Forty-one, and,
leaning out of the window, looked down on Molly.

"He ain't my felly," she responded heavily, "he boards to Kenny's. I
just brought him the despatch, but I think it's bad news, sure enough."

And wrapping the shawl closer over her head, she passed out into the
storm whose fringe was deepening on the cow-catchers of Number Ten and
Number Forty-one.

* * * * *

Sanders' big locomotive ran in from the side to the main track as
smoothly as oil, and backed up the line to the cars of the night mail.
Sanders was to start at eight o'clock