I leave the “refreshment corner” in the “combined” to seek repose in the “Marco.” Our train is still standing at Seattle and the hour is close to midnight.
THURSDAY, MAY 27th.
Getting up this morning about 7.30, I find we are crossing another desert—at least it has that appearance. We have left Ellensburg and are running through a dry, sandy country along the Yakima River. Here and there we pass a ranch where plots of land under irrigation are being cultivated, and from the fertile appearance of these irrigated tracts it would seem that this country needs but plenty of water to make it a blooming paradise. This much I discover by looking out the window while waiting my turn to wash and comb, for Brothers Terry, Brown, and Horner are ahead of me this morning. We work on the principle “first come first served,” and all good naturedly wait when there is nothing else to do. Completing my toilet, I go to the smoker and find the genial conductor who is running the train, and learn that he is a member of Mt. Hood Division No. 91; name, W. B. Hale.
“I took charge of your train at Ellensburg,” he says, on being asked the question, “and am going with you as far as I can. We have engine No. 333, run by Engineer Brant, who will take us to Pasco, 122 miles.” “This is a barren-looking country for stock raising,” I remark, as I see a large drove of cattle kicking up the dust in the desert as we pass them; “what do they live on?” “Those cattle are from away back toward the hills, where there is plenty of ‘bunch grass’ that they feed on, and are coming to the irrigation canal for water, or perhaps they are being driven to the railroad station for shipment. You would be surprised at the amount of stock shipped from North Yakima, Prosser, and Kennewick,” is the reply. “There seems to be no trouble about growing plenty of stuff where there is water,” I venture to assert, seeing a verdant-looking plantation, like an oasis in the desert, a short distance away. “Lack or scarcity of water is the only hindrance to agricultural industry,” is the answer, “and this drawback is being rapidly overcome by the construction of large irrigating canals by companies formed for that purpose.”
“Breakfast is now ready in the dining car,” chimes the welcome voice of Conductor McDonald at the open door. Several of our people had entered the smoker during the last half hour, and all arise as one person at the music of that well-known voice, that always brings “tidings of great joy.” “I think Mr. McDonald has the loveliest voice, for a man,” is the flattering remark of Mrs. Matthews as we make a break for the diner. Not one of us but what thinks so too, but of course we know Mrs. Matthews is thinking of the song McDonald sang to us a few evenings before.
“There’s a tramp hidden between the ice chests under this car beating his way, I heard some one say awhile ago,” says Manager Wyman at the breakfast table. As we finish eating the train stops at the little station of Kiona and we all get out to see the stowaway. Sure enough he’s there. In a narrow space between the ice chests, about 16 inches wide, he has placed a board on the dining-car ladder which is kept there, and crawled in on it, a place so narrow that he cannot change his position
