“She?” said Brant, to whom railway speech was an unknown tongue.
“Yes; this here car—the Hesp’rus. Last time we had her it was the back box on this end; now it’s the for’ard one under the drawing-room—blazing away like a blooming track torch more’n half the time.”
“Keeps you busy, does it?”
“You’re mighty right it does. And when I have a job like this, I like to have some blame’ fool pilgrim come up and begin to jaw about the soft snap a brakeman has now they have the air brakes.”
“Did somebody do that?”
“Sure; first thing this morning. Big chap in a linen duster and smoking cap; same one that—” The brakeman stopped short, as one who suddenly finds himself treading upon what may prove to be dangerous ground.
“Go on,” said Brant encouragingly.
“Well, I mean the fellow you had the scrap with. Great Moses! but he was hot!”
“Was he? So was I.”
“You’d better believe he was. Came out of that dining room rearin’ like a buckin’ bronco; said he was going to have the law on you, and wanted the old man to wire ahead for a policeman to meet the train.”