his headstrong way
of doing some things, Siclone Clark was a good engineer, and deserved a
better fate than the one that befell him. Though--who can tell?--it may
have been just to his liking.

The strike was the worst thing that ever happened to Siclone. He was one
of those big-hearted, violent fellows who went into it loaded with
enthusiasm. He had nothing to gain by it; at least, nothing to speak of.
But the idea that somebody on the East End needed their help led men
like Siclone in; and they thought it a cinch that the company would have
to take them all back.

The consequence was that, when we staggered along without them, men like
Siclone, easily aroused, naturally of violent passions, and with no
self-restraint, stopped at nothing to cripple the service. And they
looked on the men who took their places as entitled neither to liberty
nor life.

When our new men began coming from the Reading to replace the strikers,
every one wondered who would get Siclone Clark's engine, the 313.
Siclone had gently sworn to kill the first man who took out the 313--and
bar nobody.

Whatever others thought of Siclone's vaporings, they counted for a good
deal on the West End; nobody wanted trouble with him.

Even Neighbor, who feared no man, sort of let the 313 lay in her stall
as long as possible, after the trouble began.

Nothing was said about it. Threats cannot be taken cognizance of
officially; we were bombarded with threats all the time; they had long
since ceased to move us. Yet Siclone's engine stayed in the round-house.

Then, after Foley and McTerza and Sinclair, came Fitzpatrick from the
East. McTerza was put on the mails, and, coming down one day on the
White Flyer, he blew a cylinder-head out of the 416.

Fitzpatrick was waiting to take her out when she came stumping in on one
pair of drivers--for we were using engines worse than horseflesh then.
But of course the 416 was put out. The only gig left in the house was
the 313.

I imagine Neighbor felt the finger of fate in it. The mail had to go.
The time had come for the 313; he ordered her fired.

"The man that ran this engine swore he would kill the man that took her
out," said Neighbor, sort of incidentally, as Fitz stood by waiting for
her to steam.

"I suppose that means me," said Fitzpatrick.

"I suppose it does."

"Whose engine is it?"

"Siclone Clark's."

Fitzpatrick shifted to the other leg.

"Did he say what I would be doing while this was