hink that way about
it, you'll probably smile more broadly still, and with the same grounds
for a smile, before we make division and sign the train register at the
end of the run. Anyway, that afternoon, as Owsley, out for the first
time, walked a little shakily across the turntable and through the big
engine doors into the roundhouse, the 1601 was out for the first time
herself from the repair shops, and for the first time since the
accident was standing on the pit, blowing from a full head of steam,
and ready to move out and couple on for the mountain run west, as soon
as the Imperial Limited came in off the Prairie Division from the East.
Is it a coincidence to smile at? Yes? Well, then, there is more of
the same humor to come. They tell the story on the Hill Division this
way, those hard, grimy-handed men of the Rockies, in the cab, in the
caboose, in the smoker, if you get intimate enough with the conductor
or brakeman, in the roundhouse and in the section shanty--but they
never smile themselves when they tell it.

Paxley, big as two of Owsley, promoted from a local passenger run, had
been given the Imperial--and the 1601. He was standing by the
front-end, chatting with Clarihue, the turner, as Owsley came in.

Owsley didn't appear to notice either of the men--didn't answer either
of them as they greeted him cheerily. His face, that had grown white
from his illness, was tinged a little red with excitement, and his eyes
seemed trying to take in every single detail of the big mountain racer
all at once. He walked along to the gangway, his shoulders sort of
bracing further back all the time, and then with the old-time swing he
disappeared into the cab. He was out again in a minute with a
long-spouted oil can, and, just as he always did, started in for an oil
around.

Paxley and Clarihue looked at each other. And Paxley sort of fumbled
aimlessly with the peak of his cap, while Clarihue couldn't seem to get
the straps of his overalls adjusted comfortably. Brannigan, Owsley's
old fireman, joined them from the other side of the engine. None of
them spoke. Owsley went on oiling--making the round slowly, carefully,
head and shoulders hidden completely at times as he leaned in over the
rod, poking at the motion-gear. And Regan, who had followed Owsley,
coming in, got the thing in a glance--and swore fiercely deep down in
his throat.

Not much to choke strong men up and throw them into the "dead-center"?
Wel