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ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD
upon the door. It opened, a lantern was flashed upon him, and he fell inside.
"The trestle's out at the Glacier—hold trains both ways—Polacks—Spirlaw on—handcar—I"
That was all. Keating never spoke again.
"I dunno as you'd call him a builder," says Clarihue, the night turner, when he tells the story in the darkened roundhouse in the shadow of the big ten-wheelers on the pits, while the steam purrs softly at the gauges and sometimes a pop-valve lifts with a catchy sob, "I dunno as you would. It depends on the way you look at it. Accordin' to him, he was. He left something behind him, what?"
