He looked
at the semicircle of bold, unwinking headlights, heard the low purr
and mutter of the steam mounting in the gauges - scornful hisses of
contempt as a slack valve lifted a little - and would have given a
month's oil for leave to crawl through his own driving-wheels into
the brick ash-pit beneath him. .007 was an eight-wheeled "American"
loco, slightly different from others of his type, and as he stood
he was worth ten thousand dollars on the Company's books. But if
you had bought him at his own valuation, after half an hour's waiting
in the darkish, echoing round-house, you would have saved exactly
nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars and ninety-eight
cents.
A heavy Mogul freight, with a short cow-catcher and a fire-box that
came down within three inches of the rail, began the impolite game,
speaking to a Pittsburgh Consolidation, who was visiting.
"Where did this thing blow in from?" he asked, with a dreamy puff
of light steam.
"it's all I can do to keep track of our makes," was the answer,
"without lookin' after your back-numbers. Guess it's something Peter
Cooper left over when he died."
.007 quivered; his steam was getting up, but he held his tongue.
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