e night had disclosed in
the kid engineer.

The hostler waiting in the yard sprang into the cab with amazement on
his face, and was just in time to lift a limp boy out of the old
fireman's arms and help Dad get him to the ground--for Georgie had
fainted.

When the 244 reached the shops a few minutes later they photographed
that cab. It was the worst case of rod-smashing we had ever seen; and
the West-End shops have caught some pretty tough-looking cabs in their
day.

The boy who stopped the cyclone and saved his train and crew lay
stretched on the lounge in my office waiting for the company surgeon.
And old Dad Hamilton--crabbed, irascible old Dad Hamilton--flew around
that boy exactly like an excited old rooster: first bringing ice, and
then water, and then hot coffee, and then fanning him with a time-table.
It was worth a small smash-up to see it.

The one sweep of the rod which caught Georgie's arm had broken it in two
places, and he was off duty three months. But it was a novelty to see
that boy walk down to the post-office, and hear the strikers step up and
ask how his arm was; and to see old Dad Hamilton tag around Zanesville
after him was refreshing. The kid engineer had won his spurs.

The Sky-Scraper

We stood one Sunday morning in a group watching for her to speed around
the Narrows. Many locomotives as I have seen and ridden, a new one is
always a wonder to me; chokes me up, even, it means so much. I hear men
rave over horses, and marvel at it when I think of the iron horse. I
hear them chatter of distance, and my mind turns to the annihilator. I
hear them brag of ships, and I think of the ship that ploughs the
mountains and rivers and plains. And when they talk of speed--what can I
think of but her?

As the new engine rolled into the yards my heart beat quicker. Her lines
were too imposing to call strong; they were massive, yet so simple you
could draw them, like the needle snout of a collie, to a very point.

Every bearing looked precise, every joint looked supple, as she swept
magnificently up and checked herself, panting, in front of us.

Foley was in the cab. He had been east on a lay-off, and so happened to
bring in the new monster, wild, from the river shops.

She was built in Pennsylvania, but the fellows on the Missouri end of
our line thought nothing could ever safely be put into our hands until
they had stopped it _en route_ and looked it over.

"How does she run, Foley?" aske