.007
rest to match. Yes, sir; seventy-five an hour! But he 'll talk to you in the round-house just as democratic as I would. And I—cuss my wheel-base!—I 'd kick clean off the track at half his gait. He 's the Master of our Lodge. Cleans up at our house. I 'll introdooce you some day. He 's worth knowin'! There ain't many can sing that song, either."
.007 was too full of emotions to answer. He did not hear a raging of telephone-bells in the switch-tower, nor the man, as he leaned out and called to .007's engineer: "Got any steam?"
"'Nough to run her a hundred mile out o' this, if I could," said the engineer, who belonged to the open road and hated switching.
"Then get. The Flying Freight 's ditched forty mile out, with fifty rod o' track ploughed up. No; no one's hurt, but both tracks are blocked. Lucky the wreckin'-car an' derrick are this end of the yard. Crew 'll be along in a minute. Hurry! You 've the track."
"Well, I could jest kick my little sawed-off self," said Poney, as .007 was backed, with a bang, on to a grim and grimy car like a caboose, but full of tools—a flatcar and a derrick behind it. "Some folks are one thing, and some are another; but you 're in luck, kid. They push a wrecking-car. Now, don't get rattled. Your wheel-base will keep you on the track, and there ain't any curves worth mentionin'. Oh, say! Comanche told me there's one section o' sawedged track that 's liable to jounce ye a little. Fifteen an' a half out, after the grade at Jackson's crossin'. You'll know it by a farmhouse an' a windmill an' five maples in the dooryard.
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