d it bothers 'em a bit the different signals they've got
to learn: One to start, two blasts to stop, and eight for a grade
crossing. Whew! How much chance would we have to blow eight for a
crossing in the States and let anything get out of the way?"

Every Station Is a Block.

Up grade Big Lizzie puffed, and pulled away with a right good will,
scuttling around the many curves in the road as if she were on a dance
floor. Military railroads have to have plenty of curves, so the Boche
airplanes cannot follow them too closely. At the next station the
reporter had a chance to examine the office of the Illinois Central
agent, all decorated with shells picked up on the famous battlefields at
the head of the line, and to see the bunk house and restaurant for the
men who lay over there. Every station on the line--there are seven--has
an American station master, and all the yards have American yard-masters
and American switchmen. There is, strictly speaking, no block system in
France, but each station is supposed to be the boundary of a block, and
a train simply stays in one station until the one ahead is clear.

"Want some hot water?" queried the engineer of an American who, carrying
a big tank, came up to the engine at one of the stations. "All right: it
isn't Saturday night yet, but over here you've got to wash while the
washing's good. Help yourself out of the engine!" And the American
did--with thanks.

The engineer paused a moment to scan the sky. "Pretty dark for the
Boches to be out," he remarked. "First night out we were chased by one
of 'em in a machine, but we got in all right. That's why we run without
lights now, and make the crew use flashlights instead of lanterns. Right
over there"--pointing to the side of the roadbed, in the snow--"a
'flyin' Dutchman' came down last week, after being chased by a French
plane. His chassis was all riddled with bullets till it looked like
Cook's strainer, and his wings were bent till they looked like
corkscrews. When they came up to look at the machine, they found the
pilot's right body in it, burnt just like a strip o' bacon that's been
left on the stove too long. They found the carcass of the officer that
was with him about 500 yards away, in the woods somewhere. He must have
got a helluva toss when he went.

In Luck on Tobacco.

"Like it?" He repeated the reporter's question. "Like it? Sure; who
wouldn't? Only thing is, we're l