r--wire
him I'll send up Beezer. He wants a good fitter, does he? Well,
Beezer's the best fitter on the pay roll, and that's straight. I
always liked Harvey--glad to do him a good turn--Harvey gets the best."

Carleton crammed the dottle down in the bowl of his pipe with his
forefinger, and looked at Regan quizzically.

"I've heard something about it," said he. "What's the matter with
Beezer?"

"Packing loose around his dome cover, and the steam spurts out through
the cracked joint all over you every time you go near him," said Regan.
"He's had me crazy for a month. He's got it into his nut that he could
beat any engineer on the division at his own game, thinks the game's a
cinch and is sour on his own. That's about all--but it's enough. Say,
you wire Harvey that I'll send him Beezer."

Carleton grinned.

"Suppose Beezer doesn't want to go?" he suggested.

"He'll go," said Regan grimly. "According to the neighbors, his home
life at present ain't a perennial dream of delight, and he'll beat it
as joyful as a live fly yanked off the sheet of fly paper it's been
stuck on; besides, he's getting to be a regular spitfire around the
yards. You leave it to me--he'll go."

And Beezer went.

You know the Devil's Slide. Everybody knows it; and everybody has seen
it scores of times, even if they've never been within a thousand miles
of the Rockies--the road carried it for years on the back covers of the
magazines printed in colors. The Transcontinental's publicity man was
a live one, he played it up hard, and as a bit of scenic effect it was
worth all he put into it--there was nothing on the continent to touch
it. But what's the use?--you've seen it hundreds of times. Big
letters on top:

"INCOMPARABLE GRANDEUR OF THE ROCKIES", and underneath: "A SCENE ON THE
LINE OF THE TRANSCONTINENTAL--THE COAST TO COAST ROUTE."

There wasn't anything the matter with the electrotypes, either--nature
backed up those "ads" to the last detail, and threw in a whole lot more
for good measure--even a pessimist didn't hold a good enough hand to
call the raise and had to drop out. Pugsley, the advertising man, was
an awful liar, and what he said may not be strictly true, but he
claimed the road paid their dividends for one quarter through the sale
to a junk and paper-dealer of the letters they got from delighted
tourists telling how far short anything he could say came to being up
to the reality. Anyway, Pugsley and the p