was with his old man,' I reminded Clive.
'From what I've heard,' said Clive, 'that tots up to the same thing as being on his own.'
'No, there's no First on,' said Reuben, 'and, no ... founder's not coming along today.'
'Why not?' I said.
'On account of ... fellow's been dead this fifty year.'
So he was one of those kind of founders.
The mill hands were coming up to the carriages, trooping along in gangs of half a dozen at a time from the Lamb Inn on platform five, which always opened early for excursions.
'What do they make at this place?' I called down to Reuben.
'Blankets,' he said. 'White's blankets . . . Red they are, generally speaking.'
The excursionists all gave a cheer when Reuben waved his green flag, which he did in a way all his own: like a man very carefully drawing a diagram in the air. They were all still
leaning out when we got the starter from Halifax, but they dodged back in sharpish when we reached Beacon Hill Tunnel, into which fifty years' worth of engine smoke had rolled, and mostly stayed. It was cool inside, but you got the shaking, shrieking darkness into the bargain. For the first time I felt a little of my new nervousness in the tunnel dark. It was the stone on the line that had done it.
In the tunnel, I took off my coat. Turning about, I felt for the locker. Although stone blind I worked the catch without difficulty, but when I tried to shove my coat in there it wouldn't go. I threw open the fire door, but the red shine came only up to my knees, and did not help me with the locker, so I leant out of the engine, watching the dot of light grow and resolving to be patient.
We came out of the tunnel and the mystery was all up: a carpet bag was crammed into the locker, taking up all the space. Clive was looking across at me from the regulator. 'Not the common run of stores,' he said, 'I know.' He took a pace towards me and heaved at the bag so that it went further inside the locker. He then fished out a book that was in there alongside the bag. He handed it to me, saying: 'Reuben gave me this. It was left behind on the Hind's excursion.'
It was Pearson's Book of Fun.
'I've seen it before,' I said; 'it belonged to the kid whose mother died. We'd better get it back to him.'
Clive nodded, in an odd, dreamy kind of way, and I guessed he must be thinking I was nuts: the kid had lost his mother, so he would not be in want of Pearson's Book of Fun. I had not told Clive how I had botched things in the compartment after our smash, so he could not see what was driving me on: guilt.
'What's become of the lad?' I asked him, though I had a fair idea.
Clive shrugged and said, 'I reckon Reuben can tell you.'
I could have guessed he would say something of the sort. Clive coasted and glided; he put away all serious stuff.
The pill was waiting for us at York all right. Full name: Arthur Billington.
'Now then’ he said, climbing up.
Then, before we could say anything back, the starter signal came off and he bellowed: 'Right then, you've got the road, so frameV
He had a very loud voice.
He was leaning over the side straightway, barging Clive out of the way and eyeing up the big signal gantry we were rolling up to. I happened to give a glance over in the direction of York Minster, which, I always fancied, was sitting on an island, and which seemed to rotate as we went past.
Billington was shouting about signals. 'One, two, three, third from the right - that's the bugger you want. And he's come off! He's come off! You're right as rain for Haxby now.'
Clive gave one of his gentle pulls on the regulator.
'Open her up, lad,' said Billington.
'Would you like a turn yourself?' said Clive.
'Aye’ he said. 'Shift over, shift over,' and Clive came across to my side.
Billington gave a great tug on the regulator, and straightway I knew his kind: all hell and no notion. Two weeks before I would have laughed at him. Now, I wanted Clive back at that regulator. He'd been going too fast over the Fylde,
'From what I've heard,' said Clive, 'that tots up to the same thing as being on his own.'
'No, there's no First on,' said Reuben, 'and, no ... founder's not coming along today.'
'Why not?' I said.
'On account of ... fellow's been dead this fifty year.'
So he was one of those kind of founders.
The mill hands were coming up to the carriages, trooping along in gangs of half a dozen at a time from the Lamb Inn on platform five, which always opened early for excursions.
'What do they make at this place?' I called down to Reuben.
'Blankets,' he said. 'White's blankets . . . Red they are, generally speaking.'
The excursionists all gave a cheer when Reuben waved his green flag, which he did in a way all his own: like a man very carefully drawing a diagram in the air. They were all still
leaning out when we got the starter from Halifax, but they dodged back in sharpish when we reached Beacon Hill Tunnel, into which fifty years' worth of engine smoke had rolled, and mostly stayed. It was cool inside, but you got the shaking, shrieking darkness into the bargain. For the first time I felt a little of my new nervousness in the tunnel dark. It was the stone on the line that had done it.
In the tunnel, I took off my coat. Turning about, I felt for the locker. Although stone blind I worked the catch without difficulty, but when I tried to shove my coat in there it wouldn't go. I threw open the fire door, but the red shine came only up to my knees, and did not help me with the locker, so I leant out of the engine, watching the dot of light grow and resolving to be patient.
We came out of the tunnel and the mystery was all up: a carpet bag was crammed into the locker, taking up all the space. Clive was looking across at me from the regulator. 'Not the common run of stores,' he said, 'I know.' He took a pace towards me and heaved at the bag so that it went further inside the locker. He then fished out a book that was in there alongside the bag. He handed it to me, saying: 'Reuben gave me this. It was left behind on the Hind's excursion.'
It was Pearson's Book of Fun.
'I've seen it before,' I said; 'it belonged to the kid whose mother died. We'd better get it back to him.'
Clive nodded, in an odd, dreamy kind of way, and I guessed he must be thinking I was nuts: the kid had lost his mother, so he would not be in want of Pearson's Book of Fun. I had not told Clive how I had botched things in the compartment after our smash, so he could not see what was driving me on: guilt.
'What's become of the lad?' I asked him, though I had a fair idea.
Clive shrugged and said, 'I reckon Reuben can tell you.'
I could have guessed he would say something of the sort. Clive coasted and glided; he put away all serious stuff.
The pill was waiting for us at York all right. Full name: Arthur Billington.
'Now then’ he said, climbing up.
Then, before we could say anything back, the starter signal came off and he bellowed: 'Right then, you've got the road, so frameV
He had a very loud voice.
He was leaning over the side straightway, barging Clive out of the way and eyeing up the big signal gantry we were rolling up to. I happened to give a glance over in the direction of York Minster, which, I always fancied, was sitting on an island, and which seemed to rotate as we went past.
Billington was shouting about signals. 'One, two, three, third from the right - that's the bugger you want. And he's come off! He's come off! You're right as rain for Haxby now.'
Clive gave one of his gentle pulls on the regulator.
'Open her up, lad,' said Billington.
'Would you like a turn yourself?' said Clive.
'Aye’ he said. 'Shift over, shift over,' and Clive came across to my side.
Billington gave a great tug on the regulator, and straightway I knew his kind: all hell and no notion. Two weeks before I would have laughed at him. Now, I wanted Clive back at that regulator. He'd been going too fast over the Fylde,
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