into the cab, to say that,
before leaving the mountains forever, she had been once inside an
engine. Glover, after some delay, procured a stepladder from the "rip"
track, and with this the daughter of the magnate made an unusual but
easy ascent to the cab. More than that, she made herself a heroine to
every yardman in sight, and strengthened the new administration
incalculably.

She ignored a conventional offer of waste from the man in charge of the
cab, who she was surprised to learn, after some sympathetic remarks on
her part, was not the engineman at all. He was a man that had
something to do with horses. And when she suggested it would be quite
an event for so big an engine to go over the mountains for the first
time, the hostler told her it had already been over a good many times.

But Mr. Blood had an easy explanation for every confusing statement,
and did not falter even when Miss Brock wanted to start the 1018
herself. He objected that she would soil her gloves, but she held them
up in derision; plainly, they had already suffered. Some difficulty
then arose because she could not begin to reach the throttle. Again,
with much chaffing, the stepladder was brought into play, and steadied
on it by Morris Blood, and coached by the hostler, the heiress to many
millions grasped the throttle, unlatched it and pulled at the lever
vigorously with both hands.

The packing was new, but Gertrude persisted, the bar yielded, and to
her great fright things began to hiss. The engine moved like a roaring
leviathan, and the author of the mischief screamed, tried to stop it,
and being helpless appealed to the unshaven man to help her. Glover,
however, was nearest and shut off.

It was all very exciting, and when on the turntable Gertrude was told
by the doctor that her suit was completely ruined she merely held up
both her blackened gloves, laughing, as Glover came up; and caught up
her begrimed skirt and joined him with a flush on her cheeks as bright
as a danger signal.

Some fervor of the magical day, under those skies where autumn itself
is only a heavier wine than spring, something of the deep breath of the
mountain scene seemed to infect her.

She walked at Glover's side. She recalled with the slightest pretty
mirth his fetching the ladder--the way in which he had crossed a flat
car by planting the ladder alongside, mounting, pulling the steps after
him, and descending on them to the other side.

In her humo