By the time young Watchem had finished his “tea” the roar of passing towns was coming closer and closer together. When the flying engine screamed for a crossing, the whistle sounded above his head, and far away in the rear of his car a rain of fire was falling in the furrowed fields.
As well might the engine have been running light, for the one sleeper only served to steady her. She was making a mile on a shovel of coal, and five posts on a single fire.
“What’s that?”
“Lexington,” said the porter, bracing himself with a hand on a seat at either side of the aisle. “I tell you, boss, we’re flyin’. Dey don’ mak’ no swiftah ingin dan de nine-spot; an’ ef yo’ heah me shout, dat man Jim know how t’ hit ’er, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Bloomin’ton, sah. I tell you, boss, dese towns am brushin’ by de windahs to-night lak telegraph poles—we’re flyin’, boss,—flyin’, da’s all.”
At a station where they took water, the despatcher asked the engineer if he could stand the strain to cover the entire route. They were holding the Midnight Express at the river. This was the most important train on the Van. “Tell him yes,” said the engineer to the operator, as he opened the throttle. The Alton was making history.
“We’re goin’ through, Mickey,” shouted the engineer, holding his open watch in the thin glare of light that shot up behind the furnace door that was on the latch.
“Good!” said the fireman, catching the enthusiasm that was contagious in the cab.
When the two men had worked so, nervously alert, for another hour, they were drunk with the excitement of the trip. They could not talk for the roar and roll of the engine, but they could see each other in the dim light, and smile at each other across the cab.