"I'll go with you myself, Foley. I can give you steam. Can you stand it to double back to-night?"
"I can stand it if you can."
When I walked into the round-house in the evening, with a pair of overalls on, Foley was in the cab getting ready for the run.
Neighbor brought the Flyer in from the East. As soon as he had uncoupled and got out of the way we backed down with the 448. It was the best engine we had left, and, luckily for my back, an easy steamer. Just as we coupled to the mail-car a crowd of strikers swarmed out of the dusk. They were in an ugly mood, and when Andy Cameron and Bat Nicholson sprang up into the cab I saw we were in for trouble.
"Look here, partner," exclaimed Cameron, laying a heavy hand on Foley's shoulder; "you don't want to take this train out, do you? You wouldn't beat honest working-men out of a job?"
"I'm not beating anybody out of a job. If you want to take out this train, take it out. If you don't, get out of this cab."
Cameron was nonplussed. Nicholson, a surly brute, raised his fist menacingly.
"See here, boss," he growled, "we won't stand no scabs on this line."
"Get out of this cab."
"I'll promise you you'll never get out of it alive, my buck, if you ever get into it again," cried Cameron, swinging down. Nicholson followed, muttering angrily. I hoped we were out of the scrape, but, to my consternation, Foley, picking up his oil-can, got right down behind them, and began filling his cups without the least attention to anybody.