large in the world. Everybody liked John Ellerton: he had very honest blue eyes: Irish eyes, as I thought of them for some reason.
'I believe I know him,' said Clive.
'Who?'
'The pill. They always give you the same bloke at York - he's like a sort of warning not to come back.'
I was more than a little anxious over the run. Paul, the socialist missionary, and his governor, Alan Cowan, were down on excursions. Paul had denied having anything to do with the wrecking of 1418, but would be hardly likely to say so if he had been behind it. But no. If you were wrecking trains to make a point, you would own up to it, providing you knew you couldn't be found.
If the wreckers were after mills then here was another: White's. Then again, if they were after Hind's Mill only, we'd be all right.
The wife had settled in there quite nicely, working for her Mr Robinson and not either of the Hinds. She'd told me they were trying to discover for themselves who'd placed the stone. I'd asked her if they knew she was married to me, the fireman of the engine, and she'd said, 'I don't know. I keep mum over that.'
Could it be that the wreckers owed a grudge to Highflyers, or big engines in general?
That was something that had come to me in the Evening Star, and if it was the case, we were in for a trouble-free day, for we had under us one of the standard radial tanks of Mr Aspinall. They were a little longer than your common run of tank, but were to be counted a close cousin of a kettle put up against a Highflyer.
Clive, doing his checks, had found dust on the regulator, on the engine brake - all over the shop, really - but he'd smiled at it. I fancied that after a few long days on the Rishworth branch he was feeling light-hearted at the thought of Scarborough. It was a pretty spot, and something new in that we'd not worked an engine there before. Also, we were not booked to do a double trip, so the two of us would be able to try some of the pubs before 'coming back passenger'.
Our carriages were waiting at platform six at the Joint beside the blackboard on which Knowles, the stationmaster, had written ' special train, white's mill ', and so on, with all the fancy underlining, even for this little tank engine. He was just finishing off as we came in. He could have farmed out this job, but he had a better hand than anyone in the Joint, and he knew it. As we floated up alongside - Clive had got the cut-off just right, as usual - Knowles looked up fast, then away. I looked at Clive, but he was miles away, holding his leather book and staring at the pressure gauge, even though it was at the right sort of mark. It struck me there and then that I'd never seen Clive pass a single word with Stationmaster Knowles.
Old Reuben Booth was our train guard once again, and he was now waiting below for the coupling up and the vacuum- brake test. Knowles was walking away along the platform. You'd think he'd stay to look over a vacuum test once in a
while. It was more important than getting the blackboard right. There again, he would have to talk to us in the process. Maybe he was a shy sort really. Maybe he knew we were up to the job, and could be left to ourselves.
Reuben told us the train weight, then said: 'A hundred and fifty souls,' and as he did so his colour fell and he gave a sigh. He looked all-in.
'What exactly is this trip in aid of, Reuben?' I said.
'Holiday,' he said, and then, breathing hard through just standing still, he looked along the line towards the Beacon Hill Tunnel, which we would be entering presently. After a while of doing that he took out a paper from his coat pocket, saying: 'I have it all set down here . . . Founder's birthday, White's Mill. . . Trip's out to Skegness .. . No, sorry, to Scarborough.'
'Much obliged, Reuben,' said Clive, who turned and rolled his eyes at me. Then he looked back at Reuben, asking: 'Is the founder coming with us, sitting up in first class all on his tod, like that slave-driver Hind?'
'Hind
'I believe I know him,' said Clive.
'Who?'
'The pill. They always give you the same bloke at York - he's like a sort of warning not to come back.'
I was more than a little anxious over the run. Paul, the socialist missionary, and his governor, Alan Cowan, were down on excursions. Paul had denied having anything to do with the wrecking of 1418, but would be hardly likely to say so if he had been behind it. But no. If you were wrecking trains to make a point, you would own up to it, providing you knew you couldn't be found.
If the wreckers were after mills then here was another: White's. Then again, if they were after Hind's Mill only, we'd be all right.
The wife had settled in there quite nicely, working for her Mr Robinson and not either of the Hinds. She'd told me they were trying to discover for themselves who'd placed the stone. I'd asked her if they knew she was married to me, the fireman of the engine, and she'd said, 'I don't know. I keep mum over that.'
Could it be that the wreckers owed a grudge to Highflyers, or big engines in general?
That was something that had come to me in the Evening Star, and if it was the case, we were in for a trouble-free day, for we had under us one of the standard radial tanks of Mr Aspinall. They were a little longer than your common run of tank, but were to be counted a close cousin of a kettle put up against a Highflyer.
Clive, doing his checks, had found dust on the regulator, on the engine brake - all over the shop, really - but he'd smiled at it. I fancied that after a few long days on the Rishworth branch he was feeling light-hearted at the thought of Scarborough. It was a pretty spot, and something new in that we'd not worked an engine there before. Also, we were not booked to do a double trip, so the two of us would be able to try some of the pubs before 'coming back passenger'.
Our carriages were waiting at platform six at the Joint beside the blackboard on which Knowles, the stationmaster, had written ' special train, white's mill ', and so on, with all the fancy underlining, even for this little tank engine. He was just finishing off as we came in. He could have farmed out this job, but he had a better hand than anyone in the Joint, and he knew it. As we floated up alongside - Clive had got the cut-off just right, as usual - Knowles looked up fast, then away. I looked at Clive, but he was miles away, holding his leather book and staring at the pressure gauge, even though it was at the right sort of mark. It struck me there and then that I'd never seen Clive pass a single word with Stationmaster Knowles.
Old Reuben Booth was our train guard once again, and he was now waiting below for the coupling up and the vacuum- brake test. Knowles was walking away along the platform. You'd think he'd stay to look over a vacuum test once in a
while. It was more important than getting the blackboard right. There again, he would have to talk to us in the process. Maybe he was a shy sort really. Maybe he knew we were up to the job, and could be left to ourselves.
Reuben told us the train weight, then said: 'A hundred and fifty souls,' and as he did so his colour fell and he gave a sigh. He looked all-in.
'What exactly is this trip in aid of, Reuben?' I said.
'Holiday,' he said, and then, breathing hard through just standing still, he looked along the line towards the Beacon Hill Tunnel, which we would be entering presently. After a while of doing that he took out a paper from his coat pocket, saying: 'I have it all set down here . . . Founder's birthday, White's Mill. . . Trip's out to Skegness .. . No, sorry, to Scarborough.'
'Much obliged, Reuben,' said Clive, who turned and rolled his eyes at me. Then he looked back at Reuben, asking: 'Is the founder coming with us, sitting up in first class all on his tod, like that slave-driver Hind?'
'Hind
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