Golden Days for Boys and Girls | Page 6

on account of his father's singular
behavior.
The fireman was there before him, waiting to be let into the
boiler-room, for the engineer always kept the keys.
He was a big, brawny Yorkshire Englishman, with a scar across one
cheek, and, to add to the ugliness of his face, he had only one good eye.
Over the other he always wore a green patch.
"Hi, my lad, is thy feyther sick?" was Joe Cuttle's salutation as Larry
unlocked the door, and they went into the long boiler-room.

"No, sir," was the reply, remembering his father's wish that he say,
nothing about the matter except to the superintendent.
"I'm a little late," he continued, as he glanced at the steam gauges; "so
you will have to put on the draught and get up steam fast as you can."
"All right, Larry. I was waiting for thee this ten minutes," said Cuttle.
He clanged his shovel on the hard stone floor and rattled the furnace
doors, while Larry tried the steam-cocks and then let the water into the
glass gauges, as he had done many times before.
Then he unlocked the door into the engine-room and left Joe to shovel
in the coal and regulate the draughts.
The engine--or engines, for there were two of the same power whose
pistons turned the same great fly-wheel--glistened a welcome to Larry,
and it seemed to him that they looked brighter even than usual upon
this clear September morning.
He began wiping them off with a handful of cotton waste, adding, if
possible, to the polished brightness of the powerful arms and cylinders;
but, before he had finished the work, a gruff voice caused him to look
up.
"You, is it?" the voice questioned.
The speaker was a young man of twenty-three, who was employed in
the works. Larry had seen him a great many times, for he was always
loitering about in the boiler and engine rooms when his father was
away.
This was contrary to rules, yet Larry, being so much younger, disliked
to order the young man out. But as he saw him standing in the doorway,
then it occurred to him that, if his father was to be absent several days,
it might be better to put a stop to intrusion at once.
"Yes, I'm on duty," Larry answered, resuming his work.

Steve Croly coolly ascended the two or three steps to the floor of the
engine-room, and, picking up a piece of waste, began to rub the
polished cylinder-head which was nearest.
Larry saw that the rag which Croly was using was making streaks on
the polished surface.
"See what you're doing, Steve!" he cried, pointing at the oily smutch.
"Why don't you have some clean waste round here, then?" Croly
retorted. "When I used to run an engine, I had something to clean it
with, instead of using waste after it was soaked full of oil."
"You're not running this engine," said Larry, quietly.
His heart was heating fast; so he was silent a moment before he spoke
again, as he did not wish to speak in an angry tone.
"I think I could manage it about as well as any boy of your age," said
Croly. "It's mighty foolish to trust such an engine as this to a boy. I
heard some of the men talking about it with the super the last time your
old man was off, and I fancy he don't like it very well."
"Perhaps you heard them say something about giving you the job,"
Larry responded, with a faint smile.
"It would look more sensible if they did," replied Croly, who had too
much self-conceit to see the point of a joke that was aimed at him.
"Still," Larry answered, with more dignity, "since I am allowed to run
the engine, I shall have to ask you to obey the rules against coming in
here, after this."
"You mean that I can't come in to see the engine?"
"Not without leave. My father wouldn't let you, and you know it.
Hereafter I wish you to keep out when I'm in charge."
Steve Croly's cheeks flushed with anger.

At that moment the hoarse roar of the whistle shook the air, telling
everybody in the busy town that it was time to go to work.
It was not yet time to start the engine, but Croly sprang to the
valve-gear to let on the steam.
CHAPTER II.
The One-Eyed Fireman.
Larry divined the young man's purpose, and he needed no better
evidence that Steve Croly knew very little about an engine than this
thoughtless act.
The youth reached the valve-gear at the same time, and the hands of
both grasped the wheel.
"What are you going to do?" cried Larry, holding on with all his
strength, for the