007 had caught one glimpse of the superb
six-wheel-coupled racing-locomotive, who hauled the pride and glory
of the road - the gilt-edged Purple Emperor, the millionaires'
south-bound express, laying the miles over his shoulder as a man
peels a shaving from a soft board. The rest was a blur of maroon
enamel, a bar of white light from the electrics in the cars, and
a flicker of nickel-plated hand-rail on the rear platform.
"Ooh!" said .007.
"Seventy-five miles an hour these five miles. Baths, I've heard;
barber's shop; ticker; and a library and the, rest to match. Yes,
sir; seventy-five an hour! But he'll talk to you in the round-house
just as democratic as I would. And I - cuss my wheel-base! - I'd
kick clean off the track at half his gait. He's the Master of our
Lodge. Cleans up at our house. I'll introdooce you some day. He's
worth knowin'! There ain't many can sing that song, either."
.007 was too full of emotions to answer. He did not hear a raging
of telephone-bells in the switch-tower, nor the man, as he leaned
out and called to .007's engineer: "Got any steam?"
"'Nough to run her a hundred mile out o' this, if I could," said
the engineer, who belonged to the open road and hated switching.
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