Johnny rubbed his bruised head ruefully.
“Wouldn’t believe she could make such time.”
“That was a powerful engine.”
The two boys were now on the run. They arrived at the scene of the disaster just ahead of a tall man carrying a flashlight and a bunch of keys.
This man—the watchman—flashed his light upon the bent and twisted metal that lay against the wall, then demanded sternly:
“What’s that?”
“That,” said Johnny with a wry smile, “is a pile of scrap.”
“Don’t get fresh,” the watchman warned. “What is it?”
“It’s what I said it is,” said Johnny seriously. “If you want to know what it was, I’ll tell you; it was a dust-eating mule.”
The watchman’s mouth flew open. “A—A,” he sputtered incredulously. “I told you before, young fellow, don’t get fresh.” He moved a hand toward Johnny menacingly.