“Doin’ fine,” thought the fireman, proud of his head of steam.
“She’ll make up them three hours afore mornin’,” the engineer hoped.
On the next grade the mixed accommodation lagged. It was a steep grade. She seemed to lose enthusiasm with every yard of puffing progress. She began to pant––to groan––to gasp with horrible fatigue. Evidently she fancied it a cruel task to be put to. And the grade was long––and it was outrageously steep––and they had overloaded the little engine with freight cars––and she wasn’t yet half-way up. It would take the heart out of any engine. But she buckled to, once more, and trembled and panted and gained a yard or two. It was hard work; it was killing work. It was a ghastly outrage to demand such 305 effort of any engine, most of all of a rat-trap attached to a mixed accommodation on an ill-graded road. The Rat-Trap snorted her indignation. She howled with agony and despair.
And then she quit.
“What’s the matter now?” a passenger asked the conductor, in a coach far in the rear.
“Looks to me as if we’d have to uncouple and run on to the next siding with half the train,” the conductor replied. “But it may be the fire-box.”
“What’s the matter with the fire-box?”
“She has a habit of droppin’ out,” said the conductor.
“We’ll be a day late in St. John’s,” the passenger grumbled.
The conductor laughed. “You will,” said he, “if the trouble is with the fire-box.”