Evening star., 1925-07-03

He looked back over his shoulder
now, where the wreck rested on the
rusty rails. The old engine! She
would travel over the road she had
travelled in the pride of youth, when
boiler-plates of Yorkshire iron were
untouched of rust, when copper tubes
were new and shining, to rest in
glory at the Brashear Station Park!
1t took the chairman of the board
to put through a four-thousand-dollar
repair bill the Sabine ran up. It was
some pill to force down the throat of
directorate already cramped for mon
ey. But II went down.
You had to hand IL to Hard-boiled
Hank. When he started out to do
something, he made a good job of 1t.
Up past the desolate siding where
the Sabine stood, the Sky Rocket had
roared on her way west, the long line
Of Pullmans singing behind 748 and
the brass rails of the observation plat
form Of Henry Burlingane's car
twinkling at the very end. In that
car were the officials headed for Bra
shear to view the ceremonies when
the Sabine arrived to be installed at
her resting place in the depot park.
Through the chill air the raucous
shrek of Ed Maddox's whistle had
risen to salute the veteran, tribute
to the locomotive that once had been
the Delta Valleys pride as the steel
steed that throbbed beneath him was
its pride today.
suuealed in proud response. But the
hand that pulled the cord was not the
hand of Buck McMasters. Nor yet
of Jazzbo, his fireman. 1t was the
grip of old Dad Adams himself that
acknowledged that salute. The two
of the younger generation, who had
taken the Sabine from the Alglers
yards to the siding where now she
stood. were seated on the sloping en-
bankrnent between the locomotive and
the levee, using language that IT would
have been the proud privilege or the
roundhouse gang to hear.
For their engine had ground TO
stop, gun muZZles had covered them
voices muffied by shrouding bandannas
had commanded them to climb down.
And they had climbed. Then, as the
hold-up men had taken over their
cab, one bandanna had slipped. Be-
fore their astonished eyes appeared
the face of old Dad Adams.
In language they sought relief.
They needed some relief, there was
no question about that. And the re-
lief of free speech seemed all that was
coming to them. For the muzzle OF
Uncle Miceky's shotgun held them un-
wavering, as he squatted. unmasked
now, between cab and tender.
Talk all ye plaze," he told them
| like bad little boys. But let 1t stop
there, me buckos, onless ye wanta be
after pickin' birdshot outa yer legs
FIR a month av Sundays. Curse away.
Ye can't HURT my feelin's I've been
cursed by experts when ye were nurs-
in outa bottles. Talk up, childer."
They talked up. But they likewise
| let II stop at that. They knew too
much of Uncle Mickey and his past
record to think he spoke idly when
the gnarled old finger of the man who
had fired" on that road in it's wild,
roaring construction days caressed a
blue steel trigger. He was not muir
derous, was Uncle Mickey, but he
wouldn't in the least hesitate to pep
per their legs.
Up on the new leather seat at the
right-hand side Of the cab once more,
Dad Adams ran appraising eyes over
| his familiar surroundings. Lovingly
| his hands strayed from throttle to re-
verse. He eyed the gauges affection
| ately Even the shotgun on the seat
beside him looked natural and familiar.
Many was the time in the wild and
early days when he had made the run
with weapon in cab. Many the time
| he had used II.
"Neve' mind all that wild talk them
| babies is spoutin'. Mickey" he called.
! We're set Z roll. JUS you watch
| 'em an see they don hook on benin
Pepper 'em if they try. Hank says
| tain't safe TO yo' an me t run this
| oil wagon, does hei Huh! Well show
them two babies 'tain't safe t monkey
with U.S."
Defiantly the Sabine's whistle footed
| again. Her bell changed warning once
| more. Slowly, majestically, as Dad
! Adams fingers stirred to familiar
tasks she backed down the siding.
| Eagerly Uncle Mickey leaped down
| and threw the old hand switch, shot
gun in hand. Out on the main line
| rolled the ancient locomotive, Back
changed the switch in place. Up into
| the cab creaked Uncle Mickey Riordan.
Then while Buck McMasters and
| Jazzbo cursed in one final, harmoni-
GUS burst of soul-stirring profanity
at the thought Of the long walk or
| the long wait that was their choice,
! they saw the Sabine and her tiny ten
der gather speed and clatter on up
| the line toward Brashear.
Feed her, Mickey! Feed her!" or
dered Dad Adams as the rejuvenated
old wagon swung on her way to the
! drive Of her pumping pistons. Uncle
Mickey's old back bent joyously to his
task with changing shovel as he at
tackled the four tons Of coal in the tiny
| tender.
We've nothin' but open track an