telling me to take his fine engine with John Palmer, but month after month it only proved to be a dream. As it was I had given up hope of ever getting away from this rusty old freight engine. But one day at East-Side Junction, a small passing station, one of the happiest days of my life overtook me. Our old train was the first in and we were on the siding. I was watching this fine new Baldwin engine as she came rolling along through Howell’s Prairie. She glistened in the sun like a new plug hat. When she stopped I noticed Frank, the halfbreed, shake hands with John Palmer, the engineer, and before I could make out what was the matter Frank was walking over to our engine with some clothes under his arm and a piece of yellow tissue paper in his other hand. He was sullen and looked as though he were more than half Indian. He handed me the slip of paper and said gruffly, “Well, you wanted that engine for a long time, go and take it.” I read the paper which was brief, but right to the point; it simply said, “Davenport, fire for Palmer on No. 8.” I went over and as I got close to the fine new locomotive
