So I answered him in the mother argot at a venture, and he bit.
"There's a man down the line a piece who'll blow your train to hell," said I, "unless you pull up when he flags you."
"Son of a gun, eh?"
"Sure bet!"
"Where you learn English?"
"States," said I. "You been there too?"
"Sure pop! Goin' back some time."
"Not if you don't stop her when you get the hint, you won't. That guy down there ahead means business."
I don't think he would have dared try to run the gauntlet in any case, for the best the engine could do with that load behind it was a wheezy twenty miles an hour, and the track was so out of repair that even that speed wasn't safe. I was willing to bet Grim hadn't lifted a rail or placed any obstruction in the way, but the driver had no means of knowing that.
"Son of a gun, eh?" he repeated. "What in 'ell's 'e want?"