"'Fair,' said I; ''bout fifty an hour along here.'
"'That's good,' said he, and I wondered what he meant. He seemed like a nice man.
"Pretty soon along came the up train, and I saw him run down the track to meet her. Then he stopped, faced sideways, and let himself fall square across the rails. Say, I was mighty glad I'd fixed it so he had that drink of water. That was his last drink."
"Queer how they like to be hit by a fast express," reflected Lewis, "when a slow freight would do just as well. Now, that man at West Haven, the one who took it kneeling down, he'd waited around the tracks all day—the section-gang saw him—and he wasn't doing a thing but picking out a train fast enough for him. He'd stand ready for one, but when she'd turn out to be an accommodation or something slow he'd step away. Didn't propose to shake hands with anything under fifty an hour. Mine was the first one suited him."
"Do you ever think of their faces?" I asked; "ever see them at night—the way they looked when you struck them!"
"No," said Bronson; "can't say I ever do."
Neither did Lewis. And I judge that engine-drivers are not deeply affected by these sad occurrences. Which is fortunate, for few escape them. Indeed, in going about from engine to engine I found the following dialogue repeated over and over again:
"No, sir."
"Ever go off the track?"