plates than I've seen her for a long time. too. Give me the 'table, Jim."
Not one of them answered. Regan said afterward that he felt as though there'd been a head-on smash somewhere inside of him. But Owsley didn't seem to expect any answer. He went on down the side of the locomotive, went in through the gangway, and the next instant the steam came purring into the cylinders, just warming her up for a moment, as Owsley always did before he moved out of the roundhouse.
It was Clarihue then who spoke—with a kind of catchy jerk:
"She's stiff from the shops. He ain't strong enough to hold her on the 'table."
Regan looked at Paxley—and tugged at his scraggly little brown mustache.
"You'll have to get him out of there, Bob," he said gruffly, to hide his emotion. "Get him out—gently."
The steam was coming now into the cylinders with a more businesslike rush—and Paxley jumped for the cab. As he climbed in, Brannigan followed, and in a sort of helpless way hung in the gangway behind him. Owsley was standing up, his hand on the throttle, and evidently puzzled a little at the stiffness of the reversing lever, that refused to budge on the segment with what strength he had in one hand to give to it.
Paxley reached over and tried to loosen Owsley's hand on the throttle.
"Let me take her, Jake," he said.
Owsley stared at him for a moment in mingled perplexity and irritation.
"What in blazes would I let you take her for?" he snapped suddenly, and attempted to shoulder Paxley aside. "Get out of here, and mind your own business!
