007 nearly blistered his paint off with pure mortification.
"A hot-box," began the Compound, picking and choosing her words as
though they were coal, "a hotbox is the penalty exacted from
inexperience by haste. Ahem!"
"Hot-box!" said the Jersey Suburban. "It's the price you pay for
going on the tear. It's years since I've had one. It's a disease
that don't attack shorthaulers, as a rule."
"We never have hot-boxes on the Pennsylvania," said the Consolidation.
"They get 'em in New York - same as nervous prostration."
"Ah, go home on a ferry-boat," said the Mogul. "You think because
you use worse grades than our road 'u'd allow, you're a kind of
Alleghany angel. Now, I'll tell you what you ... Here's my folk.
Well, I can't stop. See you later, perhaps."
He rolled forward majestically to the turn-table, and swung like
a man-of-war in a tideway, till he picked up his track. "But as
for you, you pea-green swiveling' coffee-pot (this to .007'), you
go out and learn something before you associate with those who've
made more mileage in a week than you'll roll up in a year.
Costly-perishable-fragile-immediate-that's me! S' long."
"Split my tubes if that's actin' polite to a new member o' the
Brotherhood," said Poney.
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