eezer
promptly sat down from a wallop on the head that would have distracted
the thoughts of any other man than Beezer.

Engineer Beezer! He had to lift the peak of his cap to dig the tears
out of his eyes, but when he put it back again the peak was just a
trifle farther up his nose. Engineer Beezer--a limited run--the
Imperial Flyer--into division on the dot, hanging like a lord of
creation from the cab window--cutting the miles on the grades and
levels like a swallow--roaring over trestles--diving through
tunnels--there was excitement in that, something that made life worth
living, instead of everlastingly messing around with a hammer and a
cold chisel, and pulling himself thin at the hips on the end of a
long-handled union wrench. Day dreams? Well, everybody day-dreams,
don't they? Why not Beezer?

It is not on record that any one ever metamorphosed himself into a
drunkard on the spot the first time he ever stepped up to a bar; but as
the Irishman said: "Kape yer foot on the rail, an' yez have the makin's
av a dombed foine bum in yez!"

Of course, the thing wasn't feasible. It sounded all right, and was
mighty alluring, but it was all dream. Beezer put it from him with an
unctuous, get-thee-behind-me-Satan air, but he purloined a book of
"rules"--road rules--out of Pudgy MacAllister's seat in the cab of the
1016. He read up the rules at odd moments, and moments that weren't
odd--and gradually the peak of his cap crept up as far as the bridge of
his nose. Beezer was keeping his foot on the rail.

Mrs. Beezer found the book. That's what probably started things along
toward a showdown. She was, as has been said, a very large woman; also
she was a very capable woman of whom Beezer generally stood in some
awe, who washed, and ironed, and cooked for the Beezer brood during the
day, and did overtime at nights on socks and multifarious sewing,
including patches on Beezer's overalls--and other things, which are
unmentionable. The book fell out of the pocket of one of the other
things, one evening. Mrs. Beezer examined it, discovered MacAllister's
name scrawled on it, and leaned across the table under the paper-shaded
lamp in their modest combination sitting and dining room.

"What are you doing with this, Mr. Beezer?" she inquired peremptorily;
Mrs. Beezer was always peremptory--with Beezer.

Beezer coughed behind his copy of the Big Cloud _Daily Sentinel_.

"Well?" prompted Mrs. Beezer.

"I brought it