“Then,” said McGuire, waving his hand enthusiastically, “we’re on the White Mail. Kate, do you hear? we’re going through on the White Mail to-night. Say, this is—”
“Good night! Good-bye,” said the officials, for the car was going. The yard engine was giving them a kick out over the switches, and by the time the President and General Manager got to the rear platform the train was making fifteen miles an hour. The headlights of the pony shone full upon the happy faces of the bride and groom on the rear of the “Maid of Erin,” and with a hurried last good night, the two officials dropped off, one on either side.
They had long since ceased to carry passengers on the White Mail, and the engineer, who is not always consulted, wondered why they hung back so that night.
This “Maid of Erin” car had a false bottom, and between the two floors there was a layer of forty-five pound steel rails, laid close together, to weight her down and make her ride easy. At Terre Haute, the engineer called the conductor: “What in thunder you got on behind there to-night, Jack?”
“Private car—‘Maid of Erin.’”
“Huh!” said the old driver, “I thought, way the damn thing pulled, it must be made o’ lead.”
When the conductor learned at Terre Haute that the man in the private car was President McGuire, Thomas McGuire, freckled Tommy, who used to run the pump at West Silver Creek, he could scarcely wait until they pulled out before going in to see the great railroad man.
When they had passed over the last switch the conductor went back. McGuire turned and glanced at the man in the bright uniform.
“I beg pardon,” stammered the conductor, “I thought you were alone.”
“Oh, don’t mention it, we’re railroad people—sit down. I assure you that you could not be more welcome.”