Crittenden record=press. [volume] (Marion, Ky.) 1907-1909, 1907-03-14
for the penitentiary. What can I dor

for the penitentiary. What can l dor
All the while the station agent, panic
stricken. ratified on Sinclair was look
ing at his watch. casting IL up, chartng
il all under his thick. gray. grizzled
wool. fast as thought could compass.
No / headed for Acton. and her pace
was a hustle every mile OF the way
three cars OF coal bowling down on
her. how fast he dared not think. and
through II all he was asking himself
what day il was Thursday Up.
Yes, George. his boy. was on the fller
No. l. Ii was his day up. II they met
on a curve
"Uncouple her. roared Dad Sinclair
in a giant tone.
What are you going TO doy"
Burns" Numbered Dad 10 his fire
man. give her steam. and quick. boy
Dump in grease, waste, oil. every thing
Are you clear there?" he cried. open
ing the throttle as he looked back.
The old engine, pulling clear of her
coaches, quivered as she gathered her
self under the steam. She leaped ahead
with a swish The drivers churned in
the sand. bit into II with gritting tires
and forged ahead with a suck and a
hiss and a roar Before Reynolds had
fairly gathered his wits Sinclair, leav-
ing his train on the main track In front
Of the depot was Gathering over the
switch after the runaways. The wind
was a terror, and they had too good a
start. But the way Soda Water Sal
took the gait when she once felt her
feet under her made the wrinkled en-
gineer at her throttle set his mouth
with the grimness Of a gamester. 1t
meant the runaways-and catch them
or the ditch for Soda Water Sal. and
the throbbing old machine seemed TO
know II, for her nose hung TO the steel
like the snout OF a pointer.
He was a man OF a hundred even
thsn-B urns-but nobody knew 1t then.
before. he was a tall. lank Irish boy.
with an open face and a morning
smile Dad Sinclair took him on be
cause nobody else would have him.
Burns was 50 green that Foley said
you couldn't set his name afire. Ie
would, so Foley said, put out hot box
Just by blinking at IL.
But every mans turn comes once.
and II had come to Burns. Ii was Dick
Burns chance now TO show what man
ner OF stun was bred In his long Irish
bones. IL was his task TO make the
steam-if he could-faster than Dad
Sinclair could burn II. What use 20
grip the throttle and scheme II Burns
didn't furnish the power, put the life
into her heels as she raced the wind
the merciless, restless gale sweeping
over the prairie faster than horse could
iy before IT.
Working smoothly and swiftly into
dizzy whirl. the monstrous drivers took
the steel in leaps and bounds. Dad Sin
clair. leaning from the cab window.
watched their gathering
speed, pulled the bar up notch after
notch. and fed Burns fire into the old
engines arteries fast and faster than
she could throw IT into her steel hoofs.
That was the night the West End
knew that greenhOrn had cast his
chrysalis and stood out a man-knew
that the honor roll Of our frontier di-
vision wanted one more name. and
that IL was big Dick Burns. Sinclair
hung silently desperate 10 the throttle,
his eyes straining into the night ahead.
and the face OF the long Irish boy.
streaked with smut and channeled
with sweat, lit every minute with the
glare OF the furnace as he fed the
white hot blast that leaped and curled
and foamed under the crown sheet OF
Soda Water Sal.
There he stopped and sweat AMI
swung as she slowed and lurched and
jerked across the fish plates. Carefully.
nurslngly, ceaselessly he pushed the
steam pointer higher. higher, higher on
the dial.-and that despite the tremen-
dous drafts OF Dads throttle.
Never a glance TO the right or the
left, 10 the track or the engineer. From