The Lightning Keeper Read Online Free PDF Page A

the man he remembered from Naples, Amos Bigelow. The snow on the steps of the building made for treacherous footing, and Toma saw that the energetic Stephenson had his guest firmly by the elbow, supporting him.
    â€œTake care, my friend, these steps are cruel unless you know ’em as I do, and there’s your daughter waiting for you, I believe. Has she been in that car all this while, for the love of God?”
    â€œWhat? Oh, Harriet, yes, yes, she must have been. But is there nothing more you need from me? I’d be more than glad to—”
    â€œNo, no, Mr. Bigelow, thank you. We have your wheel, and we’ve had a good long discussion about…oh, I’d say we’ve covered everything. And I’m sure I never heard a more entertaining tale than your father standing up to the minister on the matter of that railroad right-of-way.”
    â€œWell, you see, without that railroad, the Bigelow works were done for, and—”
    â€œAnd here’s Miss Harriet, all grown up into…into, well, I’m sure I never saw a lovelier young woman. I’m very sorry you’ve been here all this time. I had no idea.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Stephenson, I think Father forgot about me, as he was so excited to show you his wheel. And, Father, do you remember the young man in Naples who helped us when Mama was taken ill? This is he, Toma, the very same boy. Can you believe it?”
    Amos Bigelow had been smiling absently at his daughter, but his mind still pursued that train of thought that had been his preoccupation for weeks: the making of iron wheels in such quantity as to assure the continued operation and good fortune of the Bigelow Iron Company. He was making a mental calculation of the existing and potentialstores of hardwood charcoal, the fuel without which he could not make even a hat pin, and he did not study the young man’s face, did not see the proffered hand.
    â€œOh, I’m sure you’re right, my dear. How d’ye do, young man?” And turning back to his host, he picked up the thread of the conversation that Mr. Stephenson had made every effort to conclude. “On the matter of that sample casting I was suggesting, would not the commissioners, or board of the IRT—”
    â€œMr. Bigelow, let me introduce you properly to this young fellow, my assistant, who spends most of his time down in the subway and knows the track and the electrical system down there better than the IRT itself does. Thomas Peacock, Mr. Bigelow.”
    Amos Bigelow now shook Toma’s hand and gazed with some interest at his features, giving an occasional sidelong glance to the beaming countenance of his daughter. “Yes, perhaps we have met before. Naples, you say? I’m sure it will all come back to me. That’s not an Italian name, now, is it?”
    â€œNo, sir, indeed not. It is the name given to me on Ellis Island when I came here, as a joke, I think. My true name is Pekočevié, and I come from Montenegro. It is very pleasing to me that we meet again.”
    â€œMontenegro? Montenegro?” Bigelow repeated the word, which was evidently neither familiar nor quite respectable. “Well, I suppose everyone must come from some place or other, but I never heard that one before. Hi, where’s MacEwan gone off to?”
    â€œHe hasn’t been here for two hours and more, Father, and I’m afraid he may have been drinking all this while,” said Harriet, with a certain artificial cheerfulness in her voice. And as if on cue, to break the embarrassed silence following this remark, a figure emerged from the alley and made its way slowly and unsoberly across the snowy cobbles of the street. It was MacEwan, and he was humming “Danny Boy” to himself, oblivious to the judgement awaiting him.
    â€œMacEwan! Are you drunk, man?” roared Amos Bigelow.
    â€œNo sir! No sir! Not drunk at all, sir.”
    â€œAnd have you not been drinking,