"Depends on the out trains from New York," he said; "we get in about three. No telling how long you'll stand in the yards. If you're picked up pretty quick, you ought to be home in time for breakfast. But there's no telling with a dead special."
I said, "You don't call this car a dead one, do you? You ought to have seen the adventures it had."
He laughed and said, "A dead special is a pickup. It ain't carried straight through. It's picked up and laid down and picked up. See?"
"We should worry when we get home," I said.
"You'll get there," he said, nice and pleasant; "don't you worry."
"Worry?" Connie said. "That must be a Greek word; I never heard it."
He was an awful nice fellow, that brakeman.
Pretty soon we were all sprawling on the seats, started on our favorite indoor sport, jollying Pee-wee. The train went through a pretty wild country and sometimes we could look way down into deep valleys, and sometimes mountains went right up straight from the tracks and seemed like walls outside the windows.
Wig said, "To-morrow is Columbus Day."
"Right the first time," I told him; "I wish we weren't going to get home 'till Tuesday."