iquor without waiting for it to break your
injectors, I'll ask the old man to let you finger the plug on Old Baldy
whilst I'm gone. But I'm damned if I don't feel as if you was like that
measly old 19--jest fit to be jacked up to saw wood with."

While Gun was in California, I was taken home on a requisition from my
wife, and Oscar Gunderson and his little girl became a memory--a page in
a book that I had partly read and lost, but not entirely forgotten.

One day last summer I took the westbound express at Topeka, and
spreading my grip, hat, coat and umbrella, out on the seats, so as to
resemble an experienced English tourist, I fished up a Wheeling stogie
and a book and went into the smoking-pen of the sleeper, which I had all
to myself for half-an-hour.

The train stopped to give the thirsty tender a drink and a man came in
to wash his hands. He had been riding on the engine.

After washing, he stepped to the door of the "smokery," struck a match
on the leg of his pants, held both hands around the end of his cigar
while he lighted it, then waving the match to put it out, he threw it
down and came in.

While he was absorbed in all this, I took a glance at him.
Six-foot-four, if an inch; high cheek bones; yellow beard; clear, blue
eyes; white skin, and a hand about the size of a Cincinnati ham. I knew
that face despite twelve years of turkey-tracks about the eyes.

"Gunderson, old man, how are you?" I said, offering my fin.

"Well, John Alexander, how in the name of thunder did you get away out
here on the main stem, without orders?"

"Inspection-car," said I; "how did you get here?"

"Deadheading home; been out on special, a gilt-edged special, took her
clean through to New York."

"You did!" I exclaimed; "why, how was that?"

"Went up special to a weddin', don't you see? Went up to see a new
compound start off--prettiest sight I ever saw--working smooth as
grease; but I'm kind of dubious about repairs and general running. I'm
anxious to see how the performance sheet looks at the end of the year,
John."

"Who's been double-heading, Gun?"

"Why--why, my little girl, trimmest, neatest, slickest little mill you
ever saw. Lord! but she was painted red and white and gold-leaf, three
brass bands on her stack, solid nickel trimming, all the latest
improvements, corrugated fire-box, high pressure smoke consumer and
sand-jet--jest made a purpose for specials, and pay-car. But if she
ain't got herself coupled ont