Old Shag

There's no knowing what a man can do until the chips are down—especially with a helper like the shaggy man!
Maybe a guy shouldn't believe everything he hears, but the trouble with some people is that they don't even believe a true story. Let me buy you a beer and tell you about it.
After working some years in the baggage room of the local depot, I decided to transfer to the train service, and made application for it. The application was approved. I was sent to the city offices for the course of study and training which all trainmen undergo, and after a time I was sent out as brakeman on a freight. I stayed for a year and a half. Then I succeeded in being assigned as head brakeman on a fast food special called The Red Ball Special. It made no stop between Chicago and New York except for water and fuel. The big Diesel in which I rode as head brakie was a high-speed locomotive, used exclusively for hauling the food special.
Our first stop was Detroit, where we cut off all but three cars, and took on five more scheduled in New York at 9 the next morning. In New York, I strolled along Broadway, gawking at the sights exactly like any other yokel.
After a twelve-hour rest, the return trip began. I stood in my place in the big Diesel till we had cleared for the main line, and then settled back to enjoy the ride.
It was close to midnight. I sat at the cab window half asleep, my senses somewhat dulled by the steady rhythm of train movement. I'd finished an extra good cigar and had started to doze off when the engineer gave a low moan and toppled from his seat to the floor of the cab.
The fireman, much against the rules, but feeling safe with the engineer and myself to watch in his place, had gone back to inspect a suspected leaking air hose without waiting for the train to stop.
I got the engineer back on his seat. He was dead.
I tied him in place and then began pulling on the whistle cord like mad. It was not my work to operate a Diesel. I'd not troubled to learn.