By dawn thirty or
forty men were at work, replacing and ramming down the ties,
gauging the rails and spiking them. By daylight all cars who could
move had gone on in charge of another loco; the track was freed for
traffic; and .007 had hauled the old Mogul over a small pavement of
ties, inch by inch, till his flanges bit the rail once more, and he
settled down with a clank. But his spirit was broken, and his nerve
was gone.
"'T weren't even a hog," he repeated dolefully; "'t were a shote;
and you - you of all of 'em - had to help me on."
"But how in the whole long road did it happen?" asked .007, sizzling
with curiosity.
"Happen! It didn't happen! It just come! I sailed right on top of
him around that last curve - thought he was a skunk. Yes; he was
all as little as that. He hadn't more 'n squealed once 'fore I felt
my bogies lift (he'd rolled right under the pilot), and I couldn't
catch the track again to save me. Swivelled clean off, I was. Then
I felt him sling himself along, all greasy, under my left leadin'
driver, and, oh, Boilers! that mounted the rail. I heard my flanges
zippin' along the ties, an' the next I knew I was playin' 'Sally,
Sally Waters' in the corn, my tender shuckin' coal through my cab,
an' old man Evans lyin' still an' bleedin' in front o' me.
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