.007
007 moved out the cars and delivered them to the regular road-engine. He had never felt quite so limp in his life before.
"Curious, ain't it?" said Poney, puffing, on the next track. "You an' me, if we got that man under our bumpers, we 'd work him into red waste an' not know what we 'd done; but—up there—with the steam hummin' in his boiler that awful quiet way ..."
"I know," said .007. "Makes me feel as if I 'd dropped my Fire an' was getting cold. He is the greatest man on earth."
They were at the far north end of the yard now, under a switchtower, looking down on the four-track way of the main traffic. The Boston Compound was to haul .007's string to some far-away northern junction over an indifferent road-bed, and she mourned aloud for the ninety-six pound rails of the B. & A.
"You 're young; you 're young," she coughed. "You don't realise your responsibilities."
"Yes, he does," said Poney, sharply; "but he don't lie down under 'em." Then, with aside-spurt of steam, exactly like a tough spitting: "There ain't more than fifteen thousand dollars' worth o' freight behind her anyway, and she goes on as if 't were a hundred thousand—same as the Mogul's. Excuse me, madam, but you 've the track. .... She's stuck on a dead-centre again—bein' specially designed not to."
The Compound crawled across the tracks on a long slant, groaning horribly at each switch, and moving like a cow in a snow-drift. There was a little pause along the yard after her tail-lights had disappeared;
[255]
