.007
"Well, I ain't given to blowing, as a rule," began the Pittsburgh Consolidation.
"No? You was sent in here because you grunted on the grade," Poney interrupted.
"Where I grunt, you'd lie down, Poney: but, as I was saying, I don't blow much. Notwithstandin', if you want to see freight that is freight moved lively, you should see me warbling through the Alleghanies with thirty-seven ore-cars behind me, and my brakemen fightin' tramps so 's they can't attend to my tooter. I have to do all the holdin' back then, and, though I say it, I 've never had a load get away from me yet. No, sir. Haulin' 's one thing, but judgment and discretion's another. You want judgment in my business."
"Ah! But—but are you not paralysed by a sense of your overwhelming responsibilities?" said a curious, husky voice from a corner.
"Who 's that?" .007 whispered to the Jersey commuter.
"Compound—experiment—N.G. She 's bin switchin' in the B. & A. yards for six months, when she wasn't in the shops. She's economical (I call it mean) in her coal, but she takes it out in repairs. Ahem! I presume you found Boston somewhat isolated, madam, after your New York season?"
"I am never so well occupied as when I am alone." The Compound seemed to be talking from half-way up her smoke-stack.
"Sure," said the irreverent Poney, under his breath. "They don't hanker after her any in the yard."
"But, with my constitution and temperament—my work lies in Boston—I find your outrecuidance—"
[246]
