The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1903-09-13

Getting out of the gorge"
/ Francis looked at his watch. SIS Jack
holding his own?" ventured the brake
man.
Just about
stop at Antelope to-night?'
mot on your life"
''Red Cloud?''
mot tonight
"All the way over the Horseback to-
night?''
That's the stuff"
That's Bucks. Bucks is the stuff" said
Pat Francis, arbitrarily picking up his
] lamp to go forward. Two minutes later he
was in the smoker bending over the Italian
and shaking him.
Got your ticket. Tony?"
mo gotta ticket.
Money!"
mo gotta d. num-
"Come on, them" Francis gripped him by
| the collar.
"Whata do?"
Throw you off"
The Italian drew back to resist. They
parleyed moment longer. only because
| Francis was bIuffing. If he had meant
to stop the train at any point he would
have said nothing-simply dragged the fell
low out by the hair.
At last the Italian produced three dollars
and half. 1t only enough to check
him to Red Cloud. He wanted to go
| through, and the fare was eleven dollars
and twenty cents.
The silent conductor stuck the money in
his pocket and drew his cash fare slips.
Just then the pusher whistled stop signal.
| Francis started, suddenly furious at the
sound. Showing the slips into his pocket,
| he hurried 10 the vestibule and put bis
| head angrily out. Ahead he saw only
John Parker's lamp and streamers. John
| had slid his door before Francis could open
/ the vestibule. That was why the conductor
/ loved him, because nobody, not even him
self, ever got ahead of John. When Francis
| poked his head out to look for trouble,
| John Parker's head was already in the
| wind inspecting the trouble, which came
| this time from the hind end. Looking back,
| Francis saw a blaze leaping from a jour-
nal box.
"Just as I expected he muttered, with
| a freezing word. I"That hind end man
couldn't smell tar bucket if you stuck
his head into it, Get your grease, john"
| he shouted to the old baggageman, land
a pair of brasses. Hustler
There was hardly time for the crew to
| slip into their overcoats, when Moore made
a sulen stop. But old John Parker was
ready, and waiting ahead of the stop with
! can of grease, because John didn't have
| any overcoat. He hustled bad nights with
out an overcoat, for his two girls were at
| boarding school back in Illinois. John
| picked up enough every month carrying
dogs to buy an overcoat, but the dog money
| went largely for music and French, which
were extras In Illinois; so the girls parlez
| vous'd and John piled out without any
overcoat.
| Pat Francis stormed worse than the
mountains as he followed him. All the
scheming to save a single stop was blazing
| away in the hot box. Moore, on the head
| engine, was too angry to leave his cab
1t was just bit too exasperating. The
| pusher crew stood by, and the second engi-
| neer helped just little.
But it was Pat Francis and John, with
| the safeties screaming bedlam in their
| ears, with the sleet creeping confidingly
| down their backs, and with the water
1 soaking unawares up their legs-it was
| Pat and John, silent and stubborn, who
| dug bitterly at the sizzling box, flung
| cut the blazing waste, set the screw,
| twisted it, hooked out the smoking brasses,
showed in the new ones, dumped the grease,
i stuffed the waste, and raised their lamps
| for Moore before the last of the bad words
| had blown out of the head cab and down
| the canyon. With squeakng and groan-
| ing and jerking, with vicious breakaway
| and anxious interval whenever pair of
drivers let go, Moore got his enormous load
| rolling up the grade again, and kept her
| rolling hour after hour along curve and
1 tangent to the Horseback, and across.
AS the crest of day broke, and the long,
| heavy train, far above the night and the
storm, screamed for the summit yard,
slowed up, halted, and every man. jack of
| the train crew and engine crews jumped off
to shake hands with himself on the plucky
run-in spite of it all, schedule and hair
better.
How'd you ever do it, Jack?" asked Pat
Francis at the head engine, as Moore
| crawled out of his undersides.
How late are we?' returned the en-
gineer, slowing his can and calling for
| wrench.
'Three hours"
BEAT the time a little, didn't WEEP
| laughed Moore, with a face like a lobster