IV
WE HEAR SOME THRILLING STORIES AT A ROUNDHOUSE AND REACH THE END OF THE BOOK
IT was in the round-house at Forty-fifth Street, a place of drip and steam and oil smears, that I listened to Bronson and Lewis, two good men at the throttle, as they held forth on the subject of killing people with an engine.
"After all, it's an easy death," said Bronson.
"I know," said Lewis; "but I don't like it, just the same—I mean killing 'em."
"Last one I killed," observed Bronson, "was a woman, wife of a congressman, they said, all done up in furs. 'Member her?"
"Up by New Rochelle?"
"Yes, sir, there at the platform end, where they've made a path over the tracks. Too lazy to follow the road, those folks are. Take a short cut and get killed. Well, this congressman's wife, she sauntered across just as I came through with the express. Never turned her head. Never heard the whistle. Queer about women, ain't it?"
Lewis nodded.
"Had four minutes to make up, and we were going good—fifty-five an hour easy. Slammed the brakes on, but—pshaw! Congressman's wife she stopped the last second, and that settled it. If she'd taken one more step I'd have scraped by her, but she stopped. Had to kill her. What's a man to do?"