“Well, say, you better start up,” put in the engineer. “I may get blamed for this.”
Hawkins opened a valve—he turned a crank—he pulled back a lever or two.
The Alcomotive suddenly left the station. So, abruptly, in fact, did the train start that my last vision of the end brakeman revealed him rolling along the platform in a highly undignified fashion, while the engineer sat at my feet in amazement as I clutched the side of the car.
“Well, I guess we started enough to suit him!” observed Hawkins grimly, as we whizzed past towers and banged over switches in our exit from the yard.
We certainly were started. Whatever subsequent disadvantages may have developed in the Alcomotive, it possessed speed.
In less time than it takes to tell it, we were whirling over the marshes, swaying from side to side, tearing a long hole in the atmosphere, I fancy; and certainly almost jarring the teeth from my head.
“How's this for time?” cried the inventor.
“It's all right for t-t-t-time,” I stuttered. “But——”
“Yes, that part's all right,” yelled the engineer, who had been ruthlessly detailed to assist. “But say, mister, how about the time-table?”
“What about it?” demanded Hawkins.