the top of the grade, crawling like a snail that's worn out
with exertion, and then began to gather speed a little, toboggan-like,
as she started down the Devil's Slide toward him.

Beezer gave a look at her and rubbed his eyes. There wasn't anything
to be seen back of the oncoming big mountain racer's cab but a
swirling, white, vapory cloud. It was breezing pretty stiff through
the hills that day, and his first thought was that she was blowing from
a full head, and the wind was playing tricks with the escaping steam.
With the next look he gulped hard--the steam was coming from the
cab--not the dome. It was the 1016, MacAllister's engine, and when he
happened to go up or down on her he always chose the pilot instead of
the cab--Beezer never forced his society on any man. But this time he
let the pilot go by him--there was something wrong, and badly wrong at
that. The cab glass showed all misty white inside, and there was no
sign of MacAllister. The drivers were spinning, and the exhaust,
indicating a wide-flung throttle, was quickening into a rattle of
sharp, resonant barks as the cab came abreast of him.

Beezer jumped for the gangway, caught the rail with one hand, clung
there an instant, and then the tools in his other hand dropped to the
ground, as, with a choking gasp, he covered his face, and fell back to
the ground himself.

By the time he got his wits about him again the tender had gone by.
Then Beezer started to run, and his face was as white as the steam he
had stuck his head into in the empty cab. He dashed along beside the
track, along past the tender, past the gangway, past the thundering
drivers, and with every foot the 1016 and the Imperial Limited, Number
One, westbound, was hitting up the pace. When he got level with the
cylinder, it was as if he had come to a halt, though his lungs were
bursting, and he was straining with every pound that was in him. He
was barely gaining by the matter of inches, and in about another minute
he was due to lose by feet. But he nosed in over the tape in a dead
heat, flung himself sideways, and, with his fingers clutching at the
drawbar, landed, panting and pretty well all in, on the pilot. A
minute it took him to get his breath and balance, then he crawled to
the footplate, swung to the steam chest and from there to the running
board.

Here, for the first time, Beezer got a view of things and a somewhat
more comprehensive realization of what he was up agai