Part 2 (1/2)

When the strikers saw the stuff coming in next morning behind Foley they concluded I had gone crazy.

”What do you think of the track, Foley?” said I.

”Fair,” he replied, sitting down on my desk. ”Stiff hill down there by Zanesville.”

”Any trouble to climb it?” I asked, for I had purposely given him a heavy train.

”Not with that car of b.u.t.ter. If you hold that b.u.t.ter another week it will climb a hill without any engine.”

”Can you handle a pa.s.senger-train?”

”I guess so.”

”I'm going to send you west on No. 1 to-night.”

”Then you'll have to give me a fireman. That guy you sent out last night is a lightning-rod-peddler. The dispatcher threw most of the coal.”

”I'll go with you myself, Foley. I can give you steam. Can you stand it to double back to-night?”

”I can stand it if you can.”

When I walked into the round-house in the evening, with a pair of overalls on, Foley was in the cab getting ready for the run.

Neighbor brought the Flyer in from the East. As soon as he had uncoupled and got out of the way we backed down with the 448. It was the best engine we had left, and, luckily for my back, an easy steamer. Just as we coupled to the mail-car a crowd of strikers swarmed out of the dusk.

They were in an ugly mood, and when Andy Cameron and Bat Nicholson sprang up into the cab I saw we were in for trouble.

”Look here, partner,” exclaimed Cameron, laying a heavy hand on Foley's shoulder; ”you don't want to take this train out, do you? You wouldn't beat honest working-men out of a job?”

”I'm not beating anybody out of a job. If you want to take out this train, take it out. If you don't, get out of this cab.”

Cameron was nonplussed. Nicholson, a surly brute, raised his fist menacingly.

”See here, boss,” he growled, ”we won't stand no scabs on this line.”

”Get out of this cab.”

”I'll promise you you'll never get out of it alive, my buck, if you ever get into it again,” cried Cameron, swinging down. Nicholson followed, muttering angrily. I hoped we were out of the sc.r.a.pe, but, to my consternation, Foley, picking up his oil-can, got right down behind them, and began filling his cups without the least attention to anybody.

Nicholson sprang on him like a tiger. The onslaught was so sudden that they had him under their feet in a minute. I jumped down, and Ben Buckley, the conductor, came running up. Between us we gave the little fellow a life. He squirmed out like a cat, and backed instantly up against the tender.

”One at a time, and come on,” he cried, hotly. ”If it's ten to one, and on a man's back at that, we'll do it different.” With a quick, peculiar movement of his arm he drew a pistol, and, pointing it squarely at Cameron, cried, ”Get back!”

I caught a flash of his eye through the blood that streamed down his face. I wouldn't have given a switch-key for the life of the man who crowded him at that minute. But just then Lancaster came up, and before the crowd realized it we had Foley, protesting angrily, back in the cab again.

”For Heaven's sake, pull out of this before there's bloodshed, Foley,” I cried; and, nodding to Buckley, Foley opened the choker.

It was a night run and a new track to him. I tried to fire and pilot both, but after Foley suggested once or twice that if I would tend to the coal he would tend to the curves I let him find them--and he found them all, I thought, before we got to Athens. He took big chances in his running, but there was a superb confidence in his bursts of speed which marked the fast runner and the experienced one.

At Athens we had barely two hours to rest before doubling back. I was never tired in my life till I struck the pillow that night, but before I got it warm the caller routed me out again. The East-bound Flyer was on time, or nearly so, and when I got into the cab for the run back, Foley was just coupling on.

”Did you get a nap?” I asked, as we pulled out.