"Eighty—miles—an—hour," says Bullard, close to my ear, and a moment later pulls the rope for a grade crossing. "Ooooo—ooooo—oo—oo," answers the deep iron voice, two long and two short calls, as the code requires. "Year—ago—killed—two—men—here," he shouts as we whiz over the road. "Struck—buggy—threw—men—sixty—feet." I wonder how far we would throw them now.
In the two hundred and six miles' run to the Mississippi we stop only twice—for water, at Mendota and at Galesburg—nine minutes wasted for the two, and the gale blowing harder. Our schedule makes allowance for no stops; every moment from our actual going is so much "dead time" that must be fought for, second by second, and made up. Drive her as he will, with all the cunning of his hand, Bullard can score but small gains against the wind. And some of these he loses. At Mendota we have made up seven minutes, but we pull out thirteen minutes late. At Princeton we are fifteen minutes late, at Galva fourteen minutes, at Galesburg eight minutes, but we pull out twelve minutes late. Then we make the last forty-three miles, including bridges, towns, grades, and curves, in forty-four minutes, and draw into Burlington at 1.22 a.m.—on time to the dot. This because Bullard had sworn to do it; also because the road beyond Galesburg runs west instead of southwest, and it is easier for a train to bore straight through a gale, head on, than to take it from the quarter.
We took the big, steady curve at Princeton, a down-grade helping us, at a hundred miles an hour—so Bullard declares and what he says about engine-driving I believe. Indeed, these great bursts can be measured only by the subtle senses of an expert, since no registering instrument has been devised to make reliable record. Across the twin high bridges that span the Bureau creeks we shot with a rush that left the reverberations far back in the night like two short barks. And just as we rounded a curve before these bridges I saw a black face peering down from the boiler-top, while a voice called out: "Wahr—wahr—wahr—wahr!" To which startling apparition Bullard, undisturbed, replied: "Wahr—wahr—wahr—wahr!" Then the head disappeared. Dan, from his side, was telling Bullard that he had seen the safety-light for the bridges, and Bullard was answering something about hitting it up harder. How these men understand each other in such tumult is a mystery to one with ordinary hearing, but somehow they manage it.
Half way between Kewanee and Galva a white light came suddenly into view far ahead. I knew it for the headlight of a locomotive coming toward us on the parallel track. Already we had met two or three trains, and swept past them with a smashing of sound and air. But this headlight seemed different from the others, paler in its luster, not so steady in its glare. The ordinary locomotive comes at you with a calm, staring yellow eye that grows until it gets to be a huge full moon. But it comes gradually, without much jumping or wavering. This light danced and flashed like a great white diamond. I watched it with a certain fascination, and as it came nearer and nearer, realized that here was a train of different kind from the others, coming down on us at terrific speed. And Bullard shouted: "Number—8—with—the—mail." Then added, as the train passed like the gleam of a knife: "She's—going—too."
II
WE PICK UP SOME ENGINE LORE AND HEAR ABOUT THE DEATH OF GIDDINGS
THE next day, with comfortable rocking-chairs to sit in and a row of hotel windows before us, Bullard and I found time for engine chat, and I was well content. First I asked him about putting his head out of the cab window there at Greggs Hill and elsewhere. "Was it to see better?" said I.
"No," said Bullard; "it was to hear better and to smell better."