“It would cost too much money to have a gate at every crossing,” was the explanation. “We do have ’em on the main roads. That was only a little dirt road—I don’t know why the auto was on it. I wasn’t looking for anything faster than a farm wagon or a buggy.”
“You must have some accidents?”
“Oh, yes, but not many, considering the risks we run. But we wouldn’t have hardly any accidents if the folks were a bit more careful. But some of ’em don’t heed the warnings. They will read a ‘Safety First’ sign and then run right into danger, just as if they were blind,” went on the old engineer, with a grimace.
They were now on an upgrade, but presently they gained the top of the rise and down they streaked on the other side, at a rate of speed that fairly took Joe’s breath away.
“Some running, and no mistake!” he gasped. “You must be making a mile a minute, or better!”
“Running at the rate of seventy-five miles an hour. But we can’t keep it up. Here is where we slow down,” and they did so, as a long curve appeared in the tracks.
“I don’t know as I want to be a locomotive engineer. You run too fast.”
“And I don’t want to be a baseball player—you pitch too fast,” chuckled the old engineer.
“Well, everyone to his own calling, I suppose.”
On they plunged in the wildest ride Baseball Joe had ever known. Under arches and over bridges, thundering through towns with scarcely a lessening of speed, past waiting trains drawn up on side tracks to give the special the right of way, on, on, lurching, swaying, tearing along, until at ten minutes before one the panting engine drew up in the yards at New York City.