Old 119 was now barely holding her own, and there were steep grades ahead. Never had a train gone down this canyon at such a rate; and those four cars acted like a hungry dragon bent upon getting a meal.
Pat and the brakeman were clutching to the ties of the rear car of the train, pitching and swaying as they gazed and waved and gesticulated, warning the four cars to keep distance.
“What they doing? Look! What they doing?” yelled George, on a sudden.
“They’re dumping off the ties! Come on. We got to help.”
That was a difficult journey, to rear of train. The curves were incessant, shooting the train to right and left, and throwing the passengers with it. Crawl, hang hard, take a run, and crawl and hang hard again, was the only way to navigate.
Pat did not pause; neither did the brakeman. They already had cleared one tier of ties from their car.
“Lend a hand here. Pass those ties along,” they only yelped, over their shoulders.
“But you’ll kill those Dutchmen,” screamed Terry.
“No. They’ve jumped, long ago.”
“Sure,” Paddy added, “either they lave the track or we do; an’ if they smash into us wance, then we’ll all be gone together.”