t."

In a few minutes Foley started off to hunt up Burns.

"See here, Irish," said he, in his off-hand way, "next time you catch a
string of runaways just remember to climb up the ladder and set your
brakes before you couple; it will save a good deal of wear and tear on
the pilot-bar--see? I hear you're going to get a run; don't fall out
the window when you get over on the right."

And that's how Burns was made an engineer, and how Soda-Water Sal was
rescued from the disgrace of running on the trolley.

The McWilliams Special

It belongs to the Stories That Never Were Told, this of the McWilliams
Special. But it happened years ago, and for that matter McWilliams is
dead. It wasn't grief that killed him, either; though at one time his
grief came uncommonly near killing us.

It is an odd sort of a yarn, too; because one part of it never got to
headquarters, and another part of it never got from headquarters.

How, for instance, the mysterious car was ever started from Chicago on
such a delirious schedule, how many men in the service know that even
yet?

How, for another instance, Sinclair and Francis took the ratty old car
reeling into Denver with the glass shrivelled, the paint blistered, the
hose burned, and a tire sprung on one of the Five-Nine's drivers--how
many headquarters slaves know that?

Our end of the story never went in at all. Never went in because it was
not deemed--well, essential to the getting up of the annual report. We
could have raised their hair; they could have raised our salaries; but
they didn't; we didn't.

In telling this story I would not be misunderstood; ours is not the only
line between Chicago and Denver: there are others, I admit it. But there
is only one line (all the same) that could have taken the McWilliams
Special, as we did, out of Chicago at four in the evening and put it in
Denver long before noon the next day.

A communication came from a great La Salle Street banker to the
president of our road. Next, the second vice-president heard of it; but
in this way:

"Why have you turned down Peter McWilliams's request for a special to
Denver this afternoon?" asked the president.

"He wants too much," came back over the private wire. "We can't do it."

After satisfying himself on this point the president called up La Salle
Street.

"Our folks say, Mr. McWilliams, we simply can't do it."

"You must do it."

"When will the car be ready?"

"At three o'clock."