Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [69]
“I shall be there,” said Parkinson Chenney, with a little smile. “I rather fancy I have managed their coal concession well, Prime Minister.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Prime Minister, who was not in the mood for handing out bouquets. “And would you run down to Tolness and settle up that infernal commission of inquiry? They’ve been asking questions in the House, and I can give no very definite reply. Solebury threatened to force a division when the vote came up. Undoubtedly there’s been a great deal of extravagance, but you may be able to wangle a reasonable explanation.”
“Trust me, Prime Minister,” said Mr Parkinson Chenney, and left that afternoon by special train for Tolness.
On that very morning Bones, in a pair of overalls and with a rapt expression, stood with his hand on the starting lever of “Mary Louisa,” and explained to the secretary of the company – she also wore white overalls and sat in the cab of the engine – just how simple a matter it was to drive a locomotive.
For two glorious days Bones had driven the regular service between Lynhaven and Bayham Junction, where the lines met. He had come to know every twist and turn of the road, every feature of the somewhat featureless landscape, and the four passengers who travelled regularly every day except Sundays – there was no Sunday service – were now so familiar to him that he did not trouble to take their tickets.
The Lynhaven Railway system was not as elaborate as he had thought. He had been impressed by the number of railway trucks which stood in the siding at the terminus, but was to discover that they did not belong to the railway, the rolling stock of which consisted of “Mary Louisa,” an asthmatic but once famous locomotive, and four weather-beaten coaches. The remainder of the property consisted of a half right in a bay platform at Bayham Junction and the dilapidated station building at Lynhaven, which was thoughtfully situated about two miles from the town.
Nobody used the railway; that was the stark truth borne in upon Marguerite Whitland. She recognized, with a sense of dismay, the extraordinary badness of the bargain which Bones had made. Bones, with a real locomotive to play with – he had given the aged engine-driver a week’s holiday – saw nothing but the wonderful possibilities of pulling levers and making a mass of rusting machinery jerk asthmatically forward at the touch of his hand.
“There are a lot of people,” said Bones, affectionately patting a steam pipe, “a lot of people,” he said, after sucking his fingers, for the steam was extraordinarily hot, “who think poor old ‘Mary Louisa’ is done for. Believe me, dear old miss, this locomotive wants a jolly lot of beating, she does really. I haven’t tried her full out – have I, jolly old stoker?”
The jolly old stoker, aged seventeen, shook a grimy face.
“And don’t you try, neither,” he said ominously. “Old George, he never takes her more than quarter speed, he don’t.”
“Do you hear, dear old miss?” said Bones triumphantly. “Not more than quarter speed. I tell you I could make enough money out of this engine alone to pay the whole cost of the railway.
“What about giving engine-driving lessons? That’s an idea! And what about doing wonderful cinema pictures? That’s another idea! Thrilling rescues from the train; jolly old hero struggling like mad on the roof of the carriage; railway collisions, and so forth, and so on.”
“You can’t have a collision unless you’ve two engines,” said the girl.
“Oh, well,” said the optimistic Bones, “we could perhaps borrow an engine from the Great Northern.”
He looked down at the girl, then looked at his watch.
“Time to be up and doing, dear old thing,” he said, and looked back along the little train. The aged guard was sitting on a barrow, his nodding head testifying to the sleep-giving qualities of Lynhaven air. Bones jerked the whistle, there was an unearthly shriek, and the guard woke up. He looked at his watch, yawned, searched the train for passengers, waved his flag, and climbed into his little compartment.
The engine