He brushed some ash off his lap on to mine and winked sagely.
"Suppose the guard was to come in here and start fining and imprisoning me for it, do you know what I'd do? I'd swear you did it."
"But I should deny it," I retorted hotly.
"Of course you would, old chum, and I shouldn't blame you neither, but you wouldn't stand no chance against me"—he leaned forward and tapped me on the knee as though to emphasize his words—"I could lie your life away."
He sank back in his seat, his face aglow with conscious superiority. The clamour of the wheels increased as if they were live things burning with the fever of some bloodthirsty hunt.
"Firing her up," said the red man; "always racing time, these passenger wagons. It's a dog's life and no blooming error." He prodded my foot with his. "I said 'it's a dog's life and no error.'"
"What is?" I growled.
"Engine-driving, of course. I'm on the road myself. Goods-pushing just now, but I've been on the expresses off and on, though it don't suit me—too much flaring hurry."
He rattled off into technicalities of his trade, embroidered with tales of hair-bristling adventures and escapes.