every old traveller on the system knew Sankey. He was not only
always ready to answer questions, but, what is much more, always ready
to answer the same question twice: it is that which makes conductors
gray-headed and spoils their chances for heaven--answering the same
questions over and over again. Children were apt to be a bit startled at
first sight of Sankey--he was so dark. But he had a very quiet smile,
that always made them friends after the second trip through the
sleepers, and they sometimes ran about asking for him after he had left
the train.

Of late years--and it is this that hurts--these very same children,
grown ever so much bigger, and riding again to or from California or
Japan or Australia, will ask when they reach the West End about the
Indian conductor.

But the conductors who now run the overland trains pause at the
question, checking over the date limits on the margins of the coupon
tickets, and, handing the envelopes back, will look at the children and
say, slowly, "He isn't running any more."

* * * * *

If you have ever gone over our line to the mountains or to the coast you
may remember at McCloud, where they change engines and set the diner in
or out, the pretty little green park to the east of the depot with a row
of catalpa-trees along the platform line. It looks like a glass of
spring water.

If it happened to be Sankey's run and a regular West End day, sunny and
delightful, you would be sure to see standing under the catalpas a shy,
dark-skinned girl of fourteen or fifteen years, silently watching the
preparations for the departure of the Overland.

And after the new engine had been backed, champing down, and harnessed
to its long string of vestibuled sleepers; after the air hose had been
connected and the air valves examined; after the engineer had swung out
of his cab, filled his cups, and swung in again; after the fireman and
his helper had disposed of their slice-bar and shovel, and given the
tender a final sprinkle, and the conductor had walked leisurely
forward, compared time with the engineer, and cried, "All Abo-o-o-ard!"

Then, as your coach moved slowly ahead, you might notice under the
receding catalpas the little girl waving a parasol, or a handkerchief,
at the outgoing train--that is, at conductor Sankey; for she was his
daughter, Neeta Sankey. Her mother was Spanish, and died when Neeta was
a wee bit. Neeta and the Limited were Sankey'