Even a hand-car knows what sort of locomotive it was that Peter
Cooper experimented upon in the far-away Thirties. It carried its
coal and water in two apple-barrels, and was not much bigger than
a bicycle.
Then up and spoke a small, newish switching-engine, with a little
step in front of his bumper-timber, and his wheels so close together
that he looked like a broncho getting ready to buck.
"Something's wrong with the road when a Pennsylvania gravelpusher
tells us anything about our stock, I think. That kid's all right.
Eustis designed him, and Eustis designed me. Ain't that good enough?"
.007 could have carried the switching-loco round the yard in his
tender, but he felt grateful for even this little word of consolation.
"We don't use hand-cars on the Pennsylvania," said the Consolidation.
"That - er - peanut-stand is old enough and ugly enough to speak for
himself."
"He hasn't bin spoken to yet. He's bin spoke at. Hain't ye any
manners on the Pennsylvania?" said the switching-loco.
"You ought to be in the yard, Poney," said the Mogul, severely.
"We're all long-haulers here."
"That's what you think," the little fellow replied.
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