.007
"Outer which?" said the Mogul freight. "Simple cylinders are good enough for me."
"Perhaps I should have said faroucherie," hissed the Compound.
"I don't hold with any make of papier-mâché wheel," the Mogul insisted.
The Compound sighed pityingly, and said no more.
"Git 'em all shapes in this world, don't ye?" said Poney. "that's Mass'chusetts all over. They half start, an' then they stick on a dead-centre, an' blame it all on other folk's ways o' treatin' them. Talkin' o' Boston, Comanche told me, last night, he had a hot-box just beyond the Newtons, Friday. That was why, he says, the Accommodation was held up. Made out no end of a tale, Comanche did."
"If I'd heard that in the shops, with my boiler out for repairs, I 'd know 't was one o' Comanche's lies," the New Jersey commuter snapped. "Hot-box! Him! What happened was they'd put an extra car on, and he just lay down on the grade and squealed. They had to send 127 to help him through. Made it out a hotbox, did he? Time before that he said he was ditched! Looked me square in the headlight and told me that as cool as—as a water-tank in a cold wave. Hot-box! You ask 127 about Comanche's hot-box. Why, Comanche he was side-tracked, and 127 (he was just about as mad as they make 'em on account o' being called out at ten o'clock at night) took hold and snapped her into Boston in seventeen minutes. Hot-box! Hot fraud! that's what Comanche is."
Then .007 put both drivers and his pilot into it, as the
