“Colonel Ward, you know the legal status of the Poquette Carry Railroad, don't you?”
“I don't care—”
“If you don't know it, then consult your counsel. You are on the property of the Poquette Railroad Company. I order you off. There's nothing for you to do but to go.”
Eyes as fiery as Ward's own met the colonel. The pressure on his breast straightened to a push. He fell back upon the snow.
The next moment Parker pulled the throttle. The spike-spurred driving-wheels whirred and slashed the ice and snow until the “bite” started the train, and then it moved away up the long road, leaving Ward screaming maledictions after it.
“Well,” panted the fireman, “that'll be the first time Colonel Gid Ward was ever stood round in his whole life!”
“I'm sorry to have words with an old man,” said Parker, “but he must accept the new conditions here.”
“This is new, all right!” gasped the fireman, with an expressive sweep of his hand about the little cab.
Parker was watching his new contrivance with interest. His steering-gear was rude, being a single runner under the tender with tiller attachment, but it served the purpose. The road was so nearly a straight line that little steering was necessary.
The snow on the lake road was solid, and the spikes, with the weight of the engine settling them, drove the sleds along at a moderate rate of speed. The problem of the lake transportation was settled. When Parker quickened the pace to something like twelve miles an hour, the men cheered him hoarsely.