If anyone had asked McQueen what had started, let alone caused him to exhaust the subject of coal with such painstaking and conscientious insistence, he couldn't for the life of him have answered. It had started—just started, that's all—and, fascinating him, had pursued its insidious advance unchecked and unquestioned—that is, unquestioned until one morning when Clarihue, the turner at the Big Cloud roundhouse, kind of jerked him up a little on the proposition.
"You're against the red, you and your coal, Mac, all right, all right," Clarihue chuckled, as the engineer came in to sign on for the day's run.
McQueen was patting 802's slide bars affectionately. "How's that?" he asked.
"Oil!"
"Oil?" repeated McQueen, puzzled.
"Sure thing! No more coal—no more slate—no more cinders—you touch her off, and there you are! You'll have to cut out the coal and plug up on oil, Mac."
"Oh!" said McQueen, enlightened. "Oil-burners, eh? I saw one of 'em down East. They're evil-smelling, inhuman, stinking brutes, that's what they are! Don't you let 'em side track you like that, son. They may do down there, but not in the hills. Not while you and me are pulling throttles, and don't you think so."
Clarihue grinned.
"Well, mabbe," said he. "But say, honest, Mac,
