Presently he excused himself and went ahead to the engine to interview Hard Luck. He found him with an oil-can in one hand and a bunch of waste in the other, engaged in the important duty of “oiling ’round.”
Hosselkus had had no time to change his greasy jumper and overalls for cleaner ones; his hasty wash had merely imparted a smeary look to his countenance, and the badge on his cap was upside down, but his eyes sparkled beneath their shaggy brows, his mustache bristled savagely, and the whole man was nervously alert as, with a squirt of oil here, a dab of the waste there, and feeling carefully each key and bearing to detect any signs of heating, he worked his way around the mighty racer. He was just finishing his round when the superintendent came up.
“Now, Hosselkus,” said the latter, appealingly, “do be careful and try and get us over the division in some kind of shape—make time, and, for heaven’s sake, don’t break down on the road. If you make a first-class run, I’ll see what we can do about getting a passenger run for you.”
Hosselkus put away his tallow-pot, wiped his hands on the bunch of waste, which he then carefully placed in his pocket to serve as a handkerchief, and at length spoke: “Colonel,” he said, “don’t you lose no sleep over this excursion—we’ll git there in the biggest kind of shape—this mill has got it in her, an’ if I can’t coax a move out of her, I’ll run a stationary the rest of my life. Now, these kid-engineers of yours, they ain’t up in mechanics like they’d oughter be—not but what they’re good boys—mind you, I’m not sayin’ a word agin ’em—but they waste her stren’th—they don’t really savvy the theory. Now——”
“Yes, yes,” hurriedly interrupted the superintendent; “I know, but we must be getting out of here, and don’t forget that passenger run—it’s manslaughter, if not murder in the first degree,” he said to himself, as he hastened back; “but if we escape with our lives, he shall have the run.”
The conductor waved his hand, Hosselkus opened the throttle slightly and the steam shrilled through the cylinder-cocks as the special moved down the yard. Slowly he threaded the network of tracks, cut-offs, and blind switches, and then more rapidly by the long siding opposite the row of cottages, where the families of the conductors and engineers lived. And instinctively he felt the eyes of the women upon him, and that they were saying: “Well, if there ain’t that crazy fool on Pearson’s Three-Sevens, with a passenger special! Wouldn’t that kill you?” for women are jealous divinities—they would not that man should have any other gods or goddesses before them, and, as Hosselkus worshiped only a locomotive, a thing of steel and iron, they made of him a by-word and a reproach. But at that moment, Hard Luck cared but little for their disdain; he only thought of his triumph, and the discordant clanging of the bell of the Three-Sevens sounded in his ears as a pæan of victory. “At last—at last,” seemed to say its brazen tongue.
The last switch was passed, and Hosselkus, forgetting the lightness of his train, opened the throttle so suddenly that the engine fairly leaped forward, while passengers’ necks received a violent wrench.
“This engineer of yours, colonel,” said the general superintendent, spitting out the end of a cigar he had involuntarily swallowed, “is just off a pile-driver, is he not?”
The colonel laughed a joyless laugh. “The fact is,” he replied, “the regular man was taken sick at the last moment, and we had no one but this fellow to put on. He is an old engineer, but not used to the engine. I think he will improve when he gets the hang of it.”
“I hope so—I hope so,” said the general, fervently, as he lit a fresh cigar; “there is evidently room for improvement.”