"You'll know
more 'fore the night's out. I've bin down to Track 17, and the
freight there - oh, Christmas!"
"I've trouble enough in my own division," said a lean, light suburban
loco with very shiny brake-shoes. "My commuters wouldn't rest till
they got a parlourcar. They've hitched it back of all, and it hauls
worsen a snow-plough. I'll snap her off someday sure, and then
they'll blame every one except their foolselves. They'll be askin'
me to haul a vestibuled next!"
"They made you in New Jersey, didn't they?" said Poney. "Thought so.
Commuters and truck-wagons ain't any sweet haulin', but I tell you
they're a heap better 'n cuttin' out refrigerator-cars or oil-tanks.
Why, I've hauled -"
"Haul! You?" said the Mogul, contemptuously. "It's all you can do
to bunt a cold-storage car up the yard. Now, I - " he paused a
little to let the words sink in - "I handle the Flying Freight
- e-leven cars worth just anything you please to mention. On the
stroke of eleven I pull out; and I'm timed for thirty-five an hour.
Costly-perishable-fragile-immediate - that's me! Suburban traffic's
only but one degree better than switching. Express freight's what
pays.
Pages:
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292