Wing’s chief daily function was to assist at the arrival of the east-bound passenger train.  The west-bound, having only one engine, was of less consequence.  But at the passing of the other he never missed a day, Sundays, holidays, or rainy season.  He inspected the engines, counted the wheels, considered the possibility of getting a ride on the pilot of the second engine, dodged around through the crowd, ran against people, had his toes trodden on, saw everybody who went away, stared at all who came, capered up and down the car-steps, put pins on the rail to be flattened by the wheels, stood with one foot inside the track until the train started, and, after it was all over, rode away triumphantly, hanging to the steps of the hotel omnibus.

After a while he began to thrill with the desire to know how it would feel to run backward on the track in front of the moving engine.  He had had a brief glimpse of the possibility of that bliss as he crossed the track one day when the train was coming in; and the more he thought about it, the surer he felt that some day he would have to do it.  He was well acquainted by that time with the engines, and the engineers too, and his trick of standing astride the rail and looking up with sparkling, defiant eyes at the engine’s noble front was only a sort of preparation for other deeds.

One day he had assisted at the dismounting of the passengers, had seen the last departing traveller disappear inside the cars, had had his queue pulled by the news agent, and a narrow escape from being knocked over by the baggage man’s trunk van, when he started off at top speed to get in front of the engine before the train should start.  A young woman with a baggage check in her hand was standing near an omnibus waiting for the driver to come.  Wing’s headlong speed would have carried him safely past her, but a big man with two suit-cases was rushing toward him, and as he veered to one side he struck heavily against the girl.  The blow knocked her against the steps of the omnibus and sent Wing sprawling in the dust.

A slender, trim-looking young man, who had got off the train and was about to enter the omnibus of another hotel, saw the collision and sprang to her assistance.  Helping her to her feet, he asked anxiously if she was hurt, and then seized Wing’s arm and gave him a little shaking.

“You young rascal!” he exclaimed.  “Why don’t you look where you are going?”

“Oh, don’t scold him, please!” the girl pleaded.  “He did n’t intend to do it, and I ’m not hurt at all.  Wing, how do you do?  Did it hurt you?”

Wing was indignantly tearing himself loose from the young man’s hand and was looking wishfully after the departing train and the lost opportunity.

“Lemme go,” he demanded.  “No, didn’t hurt.”