"But he's so young, Dan; he could never do the work."

"I'll look out for him," said the engineer, nodding his head. "I'll keep him busy waiting on me when we lay up, and when we have a hard run for a meeting-point there's always the head brakeman, and they can usually fire as well as a fireman."

"I will consent only to please him," she said, "and because I should like to have him with you."

He thanked her for the compliment, and took up his hat to go.

"And how often shall I see you now? I mean—how soon—when will Bennie be home again?"

They were standing close together in the little hall, and when he looked deep into her eyes, she became confused and blushed like a school-girl.

"Well, to be honest, we never know on a run of this sort when we may get back to town. It may be a day, a week, or a month," said Moran. "But I'll promise you that I will not keep him away longer than is necessary. We don't work Sundays, of course, and I'll try and dead-head him in Saturday nights, and you can send him back on the fast freight Sunday evenings. The watchman can fire the engine in an emergency, you know."

"But the watchman couldn't run her in an emergency?" queried the little woman.

"I'm afraid not," said Moran, catching the drift of her mind, and feeling proud of the compliment concealed in the harmless query. "But I shall enjoy having him come to you once a week to show you that I have not forgotten my promise."

"And I shall know," she answered, putting up a warning finger, "by his actions whether you have been good to him."

"And by the same token I can tell whether you are happy," rejoined the engineer, taking both her hands in his to say good-bye.

Moran went directly to the round-house and spoke to the foreman, and when Bennie came home that evening he threw himself upon his mother's neck and wept for very joy. His mother wept, too, for it means something to a mother to have her only boy go out to begin life on the rail. After supper they all went over to the little general store, where she had once been refused credit—where she had spent their last dollar for Christmas presents for little Bennie and his father, chiefly his father—and bought two suits of bright blue overclothes for the new fireman. "Mother, I once heard the foreman say that Dan Moran had been like a father to papa," said Bennie that evening. "Guess he'll start in being a father to me now, eh! mother?"

Mrs. Cowels smiled and kissed him, and then she cried a little, but only a little, for in spite of all her troubles she felt almost happy that night.

It was nearly midnight when Bennie finished trying on his overclothes and finally fell asleep. It was only four A. M. when he shook his mother gently and asked her to get up and get breakfast.

"What time is it, Bennie?"

"I don't know, exactly," said Bennie, "but it must be late. I've been up a long, long time. You know you have to put up my lunch, and I want to get down and draw my supplies. Couldn't do it last night 'cause they didn't know what engine we were going to have."

Mrs. Cowels got up and prepared breakfast and Bennie ate hurriedly and then began to look out for the caller. He would have gone to the round-house at once but he wanted to sign the callbook at home. How he had envied the firemen who had been called by him. He knew just how it would be written in the callbook:

Extra West, Eng.—Leave 8:15 A. M. Engineer Moran,—D. Moran 7:15. Fireman Cowels.—

And there was the blank space where he would write his name. At six o'clock he declared to his mother that he must go down and get his engine hot, and after a hasty good-bye he started. Ten minutes later he came into the round-house and asked the night foreman where his engine was.

"Well," said the foreman, "we haven't got your engine yet," and the boy's chin dropped down and rested upon his new blue blouse. "I guess we'll have to send you out on one of the company's engines this trip."

There was a great roar of laughter from the wiping gang and Bennie looked embarrassed. He concluded to say no more to the foreman, but went directly to the blackboard, got the number and found the engine which had been assigned to the gravel train because she was not fit for road work. A sorry old wreck she was, covered with ashes and grease, but it made little difference to Bennie so long as she had a whistle and a bell, and he set to work to stock her up with supplies.

He had drawn supplies for many a tired fireman in his leisure moments and knew very nearly what was needed. But the first thing he did was to open the blower and "get her hot." He got the foreman hot, too, and in a little while he heard that official shout to the hostler to "run the scrap heap out-doors, and put that fresh kid in the tank."

Bennie didn't mind the reference to the "fresh kid," but he thought the foreman might have called her something better than a scrap heap, but he was a smart boy and knew that it would be no use to "kick."

It was half-past seven when Mrs. Cowels opened the door in answer to the bell, and blushed, and glanced down at her big apron.

"I thought I'd look in on my way to the round-house," said Moran, removing his hat, "for Bennie."

"Why, the dear boy has been gone an hour and a half, but I'm glad (won't you come in?) you called for he has forgotten his gloves."

"Thank you," said the engineer, "the fact is I'm a little late, for I don't know what sort of a scrap pile I have to take out and I'd like, of course, to go underneath her before she leaves the round-house, so I can't come in this morning."

When Mrs. Cowels had given him the gloves he took her hand to say good-bye, and the wife of one of the new men, who saw it, said afterwards that he held it longer than was necessary, just to say good-bye.

When Dan reached the round-house Bennie was up on top of the old engine oiling the bell. What would an engine without a bell be to a boy? And yet in Europe they have no bells, but there is a vast difference between the American and the European boy.

Moran stopped in the round-house long enough to read the long list of names on the blackboard. They were nearly all new to him, as were the faces about, and he turned away.

The orders ran them extra to Aurora, avoiding regular trains. Moran glanced at the faces of all the incoming engineers as he met and passed them, but with one exception they were all strangers to him. He recognized young Guerin, who had been fireman on Blackwings the night George Cowels was killed, and he was now running a passenger engine.

"How the mushrooms have vegetated hereabouts," thought Moran, as he glanced up at the stack of the old work engine, but he was never much of a kicker, so he would not kick now. This wasn't much of a run, but it beat looking for a better one.

"Not so much coal, Bennie. Take your clinker hook and level it off. That's it,—see the black smoke? Keep your furnace door shut. Now look at your stack again. See the yellow smoke hanging 'round? Rake her down again. Now it's black, and if it burns clear—see there? There is no smoke at all; that shows that her fire is level. Sweep up your deck now while you rest."



CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD

One night when the Limited was roaring up from the Missouri River against one of those March rains that come out of the east, there came to Patsy one of the temptations that are hardest for a man of his kind nature to withstand. The trial began at Galesburg. Patsy was hugging the rear end of the day coach in order to keep out of the cruel storm, when his eyes rested upon the white face of a poorly clad woman. She stood motionless as a statue, voiceless as the Sphinx, with the cold rain beating upon her uplifted face, until Patsy cried "All aboard." Then she pulled herself together and climbed into the train. The conductor, leaving his white light upon the platform of the car, stepped down and helped the dripping woman into the coach. When the train had dashed away again up the rain-swept night, Patsy found the wet passenger rocking to and fro on the little seat that used to run lengthwise of the car up near the stove, before the use of steam heat.

"Ticket," said the conductor.

The woman lifted her eyes to his, but seemed to be staring at something beyond.

"Ticket, please."

"Yes—y-e-a-s," she spoke as though the effort caused her intense pain. "I want—to—go to Chicago."

"Yes. Have you a ticket?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Where's your ticket?"

"I ain't got no ticket."

"Have you got money?"

"No. I do' want money. I jist want you to take me to Chicago."

"But I can't take you without you pay fare."

"Can't you? I've been standin' there in the rain all night, but nobody would let me on the train—all the trains is gone but this one. I'd most give up when you said, 'Git on,' er somethin'."

"Why do you want to go to Chicago?"

"Oh! I must be there fur the trial."

"Who's trial?"

"Terrence's. They think my boy, Terrence, killed a man, an' I'm goin' up to tell th' judge. Of course, they don't know Terrence. He's wild and runs around a heap, but he's not what you may call bad."

The poor woman was half-crazed by her grief, and her blood was chilled by the cold rain. She could not have been wetter at the bottom of Lake Michigan. When she ceased speaking, she shivered.

"It was good in you to let me git on, an' I thank you very kindly."

"But I can't carry you unless you can pay."

"Oh! I kin walk soon's we git ther."

"But you can't get there. I'll have to stop and put you off."

The unhappy woman opened her eyes and mouth and stared at the conductor.

"Put—me—off?"

"Yes."

"It's rainin' ain't it?" She shivered again, and tried to look out into the black night.

"Don't you know better than to get onto a train without a ticket or money to pay your fare?"

"Yes; but they'll hang Terrence, they'll hang 'im, they'll hang 'im," and she moaned and rocked herself.

Patsy went on through the train and when he came back the woman was still rocking and staring blankly at the floor, as he had found her before. She had to look at him for some time before she could remember him.

"Can't you go no faster?"

Patsy sighed.

"What time is it?"

"Six o'clock."

"Will we git there by half after nine?—th' trial's at ten."

"Yes."

Patsy sat down and looked at the wreck.

"Now, a man who could put such a woman off, in such a storm, at such an hour, and with a grief like that," said Patsy to himself, "would pasture a goat on his grandmother's grave."

* * * * *

When Patsy woke at two o'clock that afternoon, he picked up a noon edition of an all-day paper, and the very first word he read was "Not guilty." That was the heading of the police news.

"There was a pathetic scene in Judge Meyer's court this morning at the preliminary hearing of the case of Terrence Cassidy, charged with the murder of the old farmer at Spring Bank on Monday last. All efforts to draw a confession from Cassidy had failed, and the detectives had come to the conclusion that he was either very innocent or very guilty—there was no purgatory for Terrence; it was heaven or the hot place, according to the detectives. For once the detectives were right. Terrence was very innocent. It appears that the tramp who was killed on the Wabash last night made a confession to the trainmen, after being hit by the engine, to the effect that he had murdered the old farmer, and afterwards, at the point of an empty pistol, forced a young Irishman, whom he met upon the railroad track, to exchange clothes with him. That accounts for the blood stains upon Cassidy's coat, but, of course, nobody credited his story.

"The tramp's confession, however, was wired to the general manager of the Wabash by the conductor of the out-going train, together with a description of the tramp's clothes, which description tallies with that given of those garments worn by Cassidy.

"This good news did not reach the court, however, until after the prisoner had been arraigned. When asked the usual question, 'Guilty, or not guilty?' the boy stood up and was about to address some remarks to the court, when suddenly there rushed into the room about the sorriest looking woman who ever stood before a judge. She was poorly clad, wet as a rat, haggard and pale. Her voice was hoarse and unearthly. Nobody seemed to see her enter. Suddenly, as if she had risen from the floor, she stood at the railing, raised a trembling hand and shouted, as well as she could shout, 'Not guilty!'

"Before the bewildered judge could lift his gavel, the prosecuting attorney rose, dramatically, and asked to be allowed to read a telegram that had just been received, which purported to be the signed confession of a dying man.

"As might be expected, there were not many dry eyes in that court when, a moment later, the boy was sobbing on his mother's wet shoulder, and she, rocking to and fro, was saying softly 'Poor Terrence, my poor Terrence.'"

* * * * *

As Patsy was walking back from Hooley's Theatre, where he had gone to get tickets (this was his night off), he met the acting chief clerk in one of the departments to which, under the rules then in vogue, he owed allegiance.

"I want to see you at the office," said the amateur official, and Patsy was very much surprised at the brevity of the speech. He went up to his room and tried to read, but the ever recurring thought that he was "wanted at the office" disturbed him and he determined to go at once and have it out.

The conductor removed his hat in the august presence and asked, timidly, what was wanted.

"You ought to know," said the great judge.

"But I don't," said Patsy, taking courage as he arrayed himself, with a clear conscience, on the defensive.

"Are you in the habit of carrying people on the Denver Limited who have no transportation?"

"No, sir."

"Then, how does it happen that you carried a woman from Galesburg to Chicago last night who had neither ticket nor money, so far as we know? It will do you no good to deny it, for I have the report of a special agent before me, and—"

"I have no desire to deny it, sir. All I deny is that this is your business."

"What?" yelled the official.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I should not have spoken in that way; but what I wish to say and wish you to understand is that I owe you no explanation."

"I stand for the company, sir."

"So do I, and have stood as many years as you have months. I have handled as many dollars for them as you have ever seen dimes, and, what's more to the point, I stand ready to quit the moment the management loses confidence in me, and with the assurance of a better job. Can all the great men say as much?"

The force and vehemence of the excited and indignant little Irishman caused the "management" to pause in its young career.

"Will you tell me why you carried this woman who had no ticket?"

"No. I have rendered unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. For further particulars, see my report," and with that Patsy walked out.

"Let's see, let's see," said the "management"; "'Two passengers, Galesburg to Chicago, one ticket, one cash fare.' What an ass I've made of myself; but, just wait till I catch that Hawkshaw."



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH

"Always together in sunshine and rain, Facing the weather atop o' the train, Watching the meadows move under the stars; Always together atop o' the cars."

Patsy was just singing it soft and low to himself, and not even thinking of the song, for he was not riding "atop o' the cars" now. With his arm run through the bail of his nickel-plated, white light, he was taking the numbers and initials of the cars in the Denver Limited. He was a handsome fellow, and the eight or ten years that had passed lightly over his head since he came singing himself into the office of the general manager to ask for a pass over a competing line, had rounded out his figure, and given him a becoming mustache, but they had left just a shade of sadness upon his sunny face. The little mother whom he used to visit at Council Bluffs had fallen asleep down by the dark Missouri, and he would not see her again until he reached the end of his last run. And that's what put the shadow upon his sunny face. The white light, held close to his bright, new uniform, flashed over his spotless linen, and set his buttons ablaze.

"Ah there, my beauty! any room for dead-heads to-night?"

Patsy turned to his questioner, closed his train-book and held out his hand: "Always room for the Irish; where are you tagged for?"

"The junction."

"But we don't stop there."

"I know, but I thought Moran might slow her down to about twenty posts, and I can fall off—I missed the local."

"I've got a new man," said Patsy, "and he'll be a bit nervous to-night, but if we hit the top of Zero Hill on the dot we'll let you off; if not, we'll carry you through, and you can come back on No. 4."

"Thank you," said the Philosopher, "but I'm sorry to trouble you."

"And I don't intend you shall; just step back to the outside gate and flag Mr. and Mrs. Moran, and don't let him buy a ticket for the sleeper; I've got passes for him right through to the coast."

As the Philosopher went back to "flag," Patsy went forward to the engine. "If you hit Zero Junction on time, Guerin, I wish you'd slow down and let the agent off," said the conductor.

"And if I'm late?"

"Don't stop."

"Well," said the young driver, "we'll not be apt to stop, for it's a wild night, Patsy; a slippery rail and almost a head wind."

"Nothing short of a blizzard can check Blackwings," said Patsy, going to the rear.

The day coaches were already well filled, and the sleeping-car conductors were busy putting their people away when the Philosopher came down the platform accompanied by the veteran engineer, his pretty wife, and her bright little girl. Mrs. Moran and her daughter entered the sleeper, while her husband and the station master remained outside to finish their cigars.

"What a magnificent train," observed the old engineer, as the two men stood looking at the Limited.

"Finest in all the West," the Philosopher replied. "Open from the tank to the tail-lamps: all ablaze with electric lights; just like the Atlantic liners we read about in the magazines. Ever been on one of those big steamers, Dan?"

"No, and I never want to be. Never get me out o' sight o' land. Then they're too blamed slow; draggin' along in the darkness, eighteen and twenty miles an hour, and nowhere to jump."

"And yet they say we kill more people than they do."

"I know they say so," said the engineer, "but they kill 'em so everlastingly dead. A man smashed up in a wreck on the road may recover, but a man drowned a thousand miles from anywhere has no show."

Patsy, coming from the station, joined the two dead-heads, and Moran, glancing at his watch, asked the cause of delay.

"Waiting for a party of English tourists," said Patsy; "they're coming over the Grand Trunk, and the storm has delayed them."

"And that same storm will delay you to-night, my boy, if I'm any guesser," observed the old engineer. "I'd go over and ride with Guerin, but I'm afraid he wouldn't take it well. That engine is as quick as chain-lightning, and with a greasy rail like this she'll slip going down hill, and the more throttle he gives her the slower she'll go. And what's more, she'll do it so smoothly, that, blinded by the storm, he'll never know she's slipping till she tears her fire all out and comes to a dead stall."

The old engineer knew just how to prevent all that, but he was afraid that to offer any suggestion might wound the pride of the young man, whom he did not know very well. True, he had asked the master-mechanic to put Guerin on the run, but only because he disliked the Reading man who was next in line. Mrs. Moran came from the car now, and asked to be taken to the engine where she and her daughter might say good-bye to Bennie who was now the regular fireman on Blackwings. "Bennie," said his stepfather, "see that your sand-pipes are open."

While Bennie talked with his mother and sister, Moran chatted with the engineer. "I want to thank you," said Guerin, "for helping me to this run during your absence, and I shall try to take good care of both Bennie and Blackwings."

"It isn't worth mentioning," said Moran with a wave of his hand, "they do these things to suit themselves."

"Now, if she's got any tricks," said Guerin, "I'd be glad to know them, for I don't want to disgrace the engine by losing time. I've been trying to pump the boy, but he's as close as a clam."

"Well, that's not a common fault with firemen," said Moran, with his quiet smile. "The only thing I can say about Blackwings," he went on, for he had been aching to say it, "is that she's smart, and on a rail like this you'll have to humor her a little—drop her down a notch and ease up on the throttle, especially when you have a heavy train. She's mighty slippery."

Guerin thanked him for the tip, and the old engineer, feeling greatly relieved, went back to where Patsy and the Philosopher were "railroading." They had been discussing the vestibule. The Philosopher had remarked that recently published statistics established the fact that when a solid vestibuled train came into collision with an old-fashioned open train of the same weight, the latter would go to splinters while the vestibuled train would remain intact, on the principle that a sleeping car is harder to wreck when the berths are down, because they brace the structure. "The vestibule," continued the Philosopher, "is a life-saver, and a great comfort to people who travel first class, but this same inventor, who has perfected so many railway appliances, has managed in one way or another to help all mankind. He has done as much for the tramp as for the millionaire. Take the high wheel, for instance. Why, I remember when I was 'on the road' that you had to get down and crawl to get under a sleeper, and sit doubled up like a crawfish all the while. I remember when the Pennsylvania put on a lot of big, twelve-wheeled cars. A party of us got together under a water tank down near Pittsburgh and held a meeting. It was on the Fourth of July and we sent a copy of our resolutions to the president of the sleeping car company at Chicago. The report was written with charcoal upon some new shingles which we found near, and sent by express, 'collect.' I remember how it read:

'At the First Annual Convention of the Tramps' Protective Association of North America, it was

'Resolved: That this union feels itself deeply indebted to the man who has introduced upon American railways the high wheel and the triple truck. And be it further

'Resolved: That all self-respecting members of this fraternity shall refrain from riding on, or in any way encouraging, such slow-freight lines as may still hold to the old-fashioned, eight-wheeled, dirt-dragging sleeper, blind to their own interest and dead to the world.'"

"All aboard," cried Patsy, and the Denver Limited left Chicago just ten minutes late. The moment they had passed beyond the shed the storm swept down from the Northwest and plastered the wet snow against the windows. Slowly they worked their way out of the crowded city, over railway crossings, between guarded gates, and left the lights of Chicago behind them. The scores of passengers behind the double-glassed windows chatted or perused the evening papers.

Nearly all the male members of the English party had crowded into the smoking-rooms of the sleepers to enjoy their pipes. Patsy, after working the train, sat down to visit with the Morans. The old engineer had been hurt in a wreck and the company had generously given him a two months' leave of absence, with transportation and full pay, and he was going to spend the time in Southern California. The officials were beginning to share the opinion of Mr. Watchem, the famous detective who had declared, when Moran was in prison, that he ought to be wearing a medal instead of handcuffs. He had battled, single-handed and alone, with a desperado who was all fenced about with firearms, saved the company's property and, it might be, the lives of passengers. Later he had taken the dynamite from the engine to prevent its exploding, wrecking the machine and killing the crew. And rather than inform upon the wretch who had committed the crime he had gone to prison, and had borne disgrace.

With the exception of Patsy, Moran, and his wife, none of the passengers gave a thought to the "fellows up ahead." Before leaving Chicago Guerin had advised the youthful fireman to stretch a piece of bell-rope from the cab to the tank to prevent him from falling out through the gangway, for he intended to make up the ten minutes if it were in the machine. The storm had increased so that the rail had passed the slippery stage, for it is only a damp rail that is greasy. A very wet rail is almost as good as a dry one, and Blackwings was picking her train up beautifully. This was the engine upon which Guerin had made his maiden trip as fireman, and the thought of that dreadful night saddened him. Here was where Cowels sat when he showed him the cruel message. Here in this very window he had held him, and there was the identical arm-rest over which hung the body of the dead engineer. And this was his boy. How the years fly! He looked at the boy, and the boy was looking at him with his big, sad eyes. The furnace door was ajar, and the cab was as light as day. Guerin had always felt that in some vague way he was responsible for Cowels's death, and now the boy's gaze made him uncomfortable. Already the snow had banked against the windows on his side and closed them. He crossed over to the fireman's side, and looked ahead. The headlight was almost covered, but they were making good time. He guessed, from the vibration that marked the revolutions of the big drivers, that she must be making fifty miles an hour. Now she began to roll, and her bell began to toll, like a distant church-bell tolling for the dead, and he crossed back to his own side. Both Moran and Patsy were pleased for they knew the great engine was doing her work. "When one of these heavy sleepers stops swinging," said Patsy, "and just seems to stand still and shiver, she's going; and when she begins to slam her flanges up against the rail, first one side and then the other, she has passed a sixty-mile gait, and that's what this car is doing now."

Mrs. Moran said good-night, and disappeared behind the silken curtain of "lower six," where her little girl was already sound asleep. Only a few men remained in the smoking-rooms, and they were mostly English.

Steam began to flutter from the dome above the back of Blackwings. The fireman left the door on the latch to keep her cool and save the water; the engineer opened the injector a little wider to save the steam; the fireman closed the door again to keep her hot; and that's the way men watch each other on an engine, to save a drop of water or an ounce of steam, and that's the best trick of the trade.

Guerin looked out at the fireman's window again. The headlight was now entirely snowed in and the big black machine was poking her nose into the night at the rate of a mile a minute.

"My God! how she rolls," said Guerin, going back to his place again. Of a sudden she began to quicken her pace, as though the train had parted. She might be slipping—he opened the sand lever. No, she was holding the rail, and then he knew that they had tipped over Zero Hill. He cut her back a notch, but allowed the throttle to remain wide open. Bennie saw the move and left the door ajar again. He knew where they were and wondered that Guerin did not ease off a bit, but he had been taught by Moran to fire and leave the rest to the engineer. Guerin glanced at his watch. He was one minute over-due at Zero Junction, a mile away. At the end of another minute he would have put that station behind him, less than two minutes late. He was making a record for himself. He was demonstrating that it is the daring young driver who has the sand to go up against the darkness as fast as wheels can whirl. He wished the snow was off the headlight. He knew the danger of slamming a train through stations without a ray of light to warn switchmen and others, but he could not bring himself to send the boy out to the front end in that storm the way she was rolling. And she did roll; and with each roll the bell tolled! tolled!! like a church bell tolling for the dead. The snow muffled the rail, and the cry of the whistle would not go twenty rods against that storm; and twenty rods, when you're making a mile and a half in a minute, gives barely time to cross yourself.

About the time they tipped over the hill the night yard master came from the telegraph office, down at the junction, and twirled a white light at a switch engine that stood on a spur with her nose against an empty express car. "Back up," he shouted: "and kick that car in on the house track."

"The Limited's due in a minute," said the switch engineer, turning the gauge lamp upon his watch.

"Well, you're runnin' the engine—I'm runnin' the yard," said the official, giving his lamp another whirl, and the engine with the express car backed away. The yard master unbent sufficiently to say to the switchman on the engine that the Limited was ten minutes late, adding, that she would probably be fifteen at the junction, for it was storming all along the line. The snow had packed in about the switch-bridle and made it hard to move, but finally, with the help of the fireman, the switch was turned, and the yard engine stood on the main track. The engineer glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing behind him save the storm-swept night. Suddenly he felt the earth tremble, and, filled with indescribable horror, he pulled the whistle open and leaped through the window. The cry of the yard engine was answered by a wild shriek from Blackwings. Guerin closed the throttle, put on the air and opened the sand-valves. The sound of that whistle, blown back over the train, fell upon the ears of Patsy and the two dead-heads, and filled them with fear. A second later they felt the clamp of brake-shoes applied with full force; felt the grinding of sand beneath the wheels, and knew that something was wrong. The old engineer tore the curtains back from "lower six," and spread out his arms, placing one foot against the foot of the berth, and threw himself on top of the two sleepers. Patsy and the Philosopher braced themselves against the seat in front of them, and waited the shock. Bennie heard the whistle, too, and went out into the night, not knowing where or how he would light. Young Guerin had no time to jump. He had work to do. His left hand fell from the whistle-rope to the air-brake, and it was applied even while his right hand shoved the throttle home, and opened the sand-valves—and then the crash came. Being higher built, Blackwings shot right over the top of the yard engine, turned end for end, and lay with her pilot under the mail car, which was telescoped into the express car. The balance of the train, surging, straining, and trembling, came to a stop, with all wheels on the rail, thanks to the faithful driver, and the open sand-pipes. The train had scarcely stopped when the conductor and the two dead-heads were at the engine, searching, amid the roar of escaping steam, for the engine crew. A moment later Bennie came limping in from a neighboring field where he had been wallowing in a snow-drift. The operator, rushing from the station, stumbled over the body of a man. It was Guerin. When the engine turned over he had been hurled from the cab and slammed up against the depot, fifty feet away. The rescuers, searching about the wreck, shouted and called to the occupants of the mail car, but the wail of the wounded engine drowned their voices. In a little while both men were rescued almost unhurt. Now all the employees and many passengers gathered about the engineer. The station master held Guerin's head upon his knee, while Moran made a hasty examination of his hurt. There was scarcely a bone in his body that was not broken, but he was still alive. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked about. "I'm cold!" he said distinctly. Patsy held his white light close to the face of the wounded man. His eyes seemed now to be fixed upon something far away. "Mercy, but I'm cold!" he said pathetically. Now all the women were weeping, and there were tears in the eyes of most of the men. "Raise him up a little," said Moran. "It's getting dark," said the dying man, "Oh, so dark! It must be the snow—" and he closed his eyes again—"snow—on—the headlight."



THE END



THE STORY OF THE WEST SERIES.

Edited by RIPLEY HITCHCOCK.

Each, Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, $1.50.

THE STORY OF THE RAILROAD.

By CY WARMAN, author of "The Express Messenger," etc. With Maps, and many Illustrations by B. West Clinedinst and from Photographs.

As we understand it, the editor's ruling idea in this series has not been to present chronology or statistics or set essays on the social and political development of the great West, but to give to us vivid pictures of the life and the times in the period of great development, and to let us see the men at their work, their characters, and their motives. The choice of an author has been fortunate. In Mr. Warman's book we are kept constantly reminded of the fortitude, the suffering, the enterprise, and the endurance of the pioneers. We see the glowing imagination of the promoter, and we see the engineer scouting the plains and the mountains, fighting the Indians, freezing and starving, and always full of a keen enthusiasm for his work and of noble devotion to his duty. The construction train and the Irish boss are not forgotten, and in the stories of their doings we find not only courage and adventure, but wit and humor.—The Railroad Gazette.

THE STORY OF THE COWBOY.

By E. HOUGH, author of "The Singing Mouse Stories," etc. Illustrated by William L. Wells and C. M. Russell.

Mr. Hough is to be thanked for having written so excellent a book. The cowboy story, as this author has told it, will be the cowboy's fitting eulogy. This volume will be consulted in years to come as an authority on past conditions of the far West. For fine literary work the author is to be highly complimented. Here, certainly, we have a choice piece of writing.—New York Times.



THE STORY OF THE MINE.

As Illustrated by the Great Comstock Lode of Nevada.

By CHARLES HOWARD SHINN.

Mr. Shinn writes from ... such acquaintance as could only be gained by familiarity with the men and the places described, ... and by the fullest appreciation of the pervading spirit of the Western mining camps of yesterday and to-day. Thus his book has a distinctly human interest, apart from its value as a treatise on things material.—Review of Reviews.

THE STORY OF THE INDIAN.

By GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL, author of "Pawnee Hero Stories," "Blackfoot Lodge Tales," etc.

Only an author qualified by personal experience could offer us a profitable study of a race so alien from our own as is the Indian in thought, feeling, and culture. Only long association with Indians can enable a white man measurably to comprehend their thoughts and enter into their feelings. Such association has been Mr. Grinnell's.—New York Sun.



Books by Graham Travers.

WINDYHAUGH.

A Novel. By GRAHAM TRAVERS, author of "Mona Maclean. Medical Student," "Fellow Travellers," etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"Windyhaugh" shows an infinitely more mature skill and more subtle humor than "Mona Maclean" and a profounder insight into life. The psychology in Dr. Todd's remarkable book is all of the right kind; and there is not in English fiction a more careful and penetrating analysis of the evolution of a woman's mind than is given in Wilhelmina Galbraith; but "Windyhaugh" is not a book in which there is only one "star" and a crowd of "supers." Every character is limned with a conscientious care that bespeaks the true artist, and the analytical interest of the novel is rigorously kept in its proper place and is only one element in a delightful story. It is a supremely interesting and wholesome book, and in an age when excellence of technique has reached a remarkable level, "Windyhaugh" compels admiration for its brilliancy of style. Dr. Todd paints on a large canvas, but she has a true sense of proportion.—Blackwood's Magazine.

For truth to life, for adherence to a clear line of action, for arrival at the point toward which it has aimed from the first, such a book as "Windyhaugh" must be judged remarkable. There is vigor and brilliancy. It is a book that must be read from the beginning to the end and that it is a satisfaction to have read.—Boston Journal.

Its easy style, its natural characters, and its general tone of earnestness assure its author a high rank among contemporary novelists.—Chicago Tribune.

MONA MACLEAN.

Medical Student. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, $1.00.

A pleasure in store for you if you have not read this volume. The author has given us a thoroughly natural series of events, and drawn her characters like an artist. It is the story of a woman's struggles with her own soul. She is a woman of resource, a strong woman, and her career is interesting from beginning to end.—New York Herald.

"Mona Maclean" is a bright, healthful, winning story.—New York Mail and Express.

A high-bred comedy.—New York Times.

FELLOW TRAVELLERS.

12mo. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, $1.00.

The stories are well told; the literary style is above the average, and the character drawing is to be particularly praised. ... Altogether, the little book is a model of its kind, and its reading will give pleasure to people of taste.—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.

"Fellow Travellers" is a collection of very brightly written tales, all dealing, as the title implies, with the mutual relations of people thrown together casually while travelling.—London Saturday Review.



"A Book that will Live."

DAVID HARUM.

A Story of American Life. By EDWARD NOYES WESTCOTT. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

Thoroughly a pure, original, and fresh American type. David Harum is a character whose qualities of mind and heart, eccentricities, and dry humor will win for his creator noble distinction. Buoyancy, life, and cheerfulness are dominant notes. In its vividness and force the story is a strong, fresh picture of American life. Original and true, it is worth the same distinction which is accorded the genre pictures of peculiar types and places sketched by Mr. George W. Cable, Mr. Joel Chandler Harris, Mr. Thomas Nelson Page, Miss Wilkins, Miss Jewett, Mr. Garland, Miss French, Miss Murfree, Mr. Gilbert Parker, Mr. Owen Wister, and Bret Harte.—Boston Herald.

Mr. Westcott has done for central New York what Mr. Cable, Mr. Page, and Mr. Harris have done for different parts of the South, and what Miss Jewett and Miss Wilkins are doing for New England, and Mr. Hamlin Garland for the West.... "David Harum" is a masterly delineation of an American type.... Here is life with all its joys and sorrows.... David Harum lives in these pages as he will live in the mind of the reader.... He deserves to be known by all good Americans; he is one of them in boundless energy, in large-heartedness, in shrewdness, and in humor.—The Critic.

True, strong, and thoroughly alive, with a humor like that of Abraham Lincoln and a nature as sweet at the core.—Boston Literary World.

We give Edward Noyes Westcott his true place in American letters—placing him as a humorist next to Mark Twain, as a master of dialect above Lowell, as a descriptive writer equal to Bret Harte, and, on the whole, as a novelist on a par with the best of those who live and have their being in the heart of hearts of American readers. If the author is dead—lamentable fact—his book will live.—Philadelphia Item.

The main character ... will probably take his place in time beside Joel Chandler Harris's and Thomas Nelson Page's and Miss Wilkins's creations.—Chicago Times-Herald.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

D. B. Updike The Merrymount Press 104 Chestnut St. Boston

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