I
guess we started at the lowest numbered engine on the road, and
gossiped about each and every crew. We had finished the list of
engineers and had fairly started on the firemen when a thought struck
me, and I said:
"Oh, I forgot him, Jim--the 'Kid,' your cheery little cricket of a
firesy, who thought Jim Wainright the only man on the road that could
run an engine right. I remember he wouldn't take a job running
switcher--said a man that didn't know that firing for Jim Wainright was
a better job than running was crazy. What's become of him? Running, I
suppose?"
Jim Wainright put his hand up to his eyes for a minute, and his voice
was a little husky as he said:
"No, John, the Kid went away--"
"Went away?"
"Yes, across the Great Divide--dead."
"That's tough," said I, for I saw Jim felt bad. "The Kid and you were
like two brothers."
"John, I loved the--"
Then Jim broke down. He got his hat and coat, and said:
"John, let's get out into the air--I feel all choked up here; and I'll
tell you a strange, true story--the Kid's story."
As we got out of the crowd and into Boston Common, Jim told his story,
and here it is, just as I remember it--and I'm not bad at remembering.
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