“He may reason that I’ll try harder if I think I’m not perfect than I would if he praised me more,” Larry often told himself, and now the long-wished-for expression of confidence had come.

[Illustration:  LARRY]

[Illustration:  “I WANT YOU TO TAKE THIS FELLOW AWAY FROM THE ENGINE BEFORE WE’RE ALL BLOWN OUT OF THE BUILDING TO PAY FOR HIS CARELESSNESS.”]

With so much to think about, Larry could eat but little breakfast, and his appetite was not improved by the manifest distress of his mother and the taciturnity of his father.

“It is nearly six, Larry,” reminded the latter, breaking the silence.

“Yes, sir.  I will go right along.”

He flung on his cap and buttoned up his coat, lingering at the door for a parting word from his father.  But none came.

“What shall I say to Mr. Gardner?” Larry asked, unable to go without breaking the silence.

“You needn’t say anything.”

“But he may ask why you didn’t come.  He always does, unless you give notice the night before.”

“Your mother told you I was going away, and that is enough for you to tell him.  You needn’t let it trouble you, anyway; just attend to your duties and say nothing to anybody.  Remember that it is a responsible business to have full charge of a thousand-hose-power engine and nine boilers, and something that not many boys of seventeen are trusted to run even for a day or two at a time.”

“I know that, father, and that is why I wanted to know what to say to the superintendent.”

“I have told you all you need to say, and more, unless you are asked.”

“All right, sir.  I—­I hope you will have good luck, father, and—­good-by.”

Mr. Kendall seemed not to have heard the parting wish of his son; he certainly did not return the good-by.  And mingled with the feeling of satisfaction at being intrusted with the care of the great engine was a sensation of vague uneasiness 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.