Dutchy was bellowing like a mad bull. "Say it! Shusht say it. Oh! py golly! "
Here followed a volcanic eruption of guttural German with one or two words common to all languages intermingled.
Then, flying through the doorway of the lunch-room, dashing down the platform, scattering loungers, passengers, and car-tinks in all directions, in a mad rush for the engine end of the train, tore a short figure in tight-fitting, bandy-legged overalls, whose flaming red hair presented a shining mark for the plate that whizzed past his ear and smashed into a hundred pieces against a baggage-truck.
And Dutchy, blowing hard, his sleeves rolled up over the fat of his arms, waddled to the center of the platform and shook a frantic fist after the retreating engineer.
"I a fool iss no longer yet, don'd it?" he screamed, and, puffing his cheeks in and out like a whezzy injector, he turned, reentered the restaurant, and the door closed behind him with a resounding bang.
MacDonald drew in his head, and the tears were running down his cheeks as he held his sides.
Thornley groped for a chair.
"Guess Taggart was asking for a rebate," he gasped. "It was worth pay to see him run."
"You bet!" said MacDoneld eloquently, when he could get his breath.
The door opened, and Brett, the super, came in.
