Part 19 (1/2)

When our new men began coming from the Reading to replace the strikers, every one wondered who would get Siclone Clark's engine, the 313.

Siclone had gently sworn to kill the first man who took out the 313--and bar n.o.body.

Whatever others thought of Siclone's vaporings, they counted for a good deal on the West End; n.o.body wanted trouble with him.

Even Neighbor, who feared no man, sort of let the 313 lay in her stall as long as possible, after the trouble began.

Nothing was said about it. Threats cannot be taken cognizance of officially; we were bombarded with threats all the time; they had long since ceased to move us. Yet Siclone's engine stayed in the round-house.

Then, after Foley and McTerza and Sinclair, came Fitzpatrick from the East. McTerza was put on the mails, and, coming down one day on the White Flyer, he blew a cylinder-head out of the 416.

Fitzpatrick was waiting to take her out when she came stumping in on one pair of drivers--for we were using engines worse than horseflesh then.

But of course the 416 was put out. The only gig left in the house was the 313.

I imagine Neighbor felt the finger of fate in it. The mail had to go.

The time had come for the 313; he ordered her fired.

”The man that ran this engine swore he would kill the man that took her out,” said Neighbor, sort of incidentally, as Fitz stood by waiting for her to steam.

”I suppose that means me,” said Fitzpatrick.

”I suppose it does.”

”Whose engine is it?”

”Siclone Clark's.”

Fitzpatrick s.h.i.+fted to the other leg.

”Did he say what I would be doing while this was going on?”

Something in Fitzpatrick's manner made Neighbor laugh. Other things crowded in and no more was said.

No more was thought in fact. The 313 rolled as kindly for Fitzpatrick as for Siclone, and the new engineer, a quiet fellow like Foley, only a good bit heavier, went on and off her with never a word for anybody.

One day Fitzpatrick dropped into a barber shop to get shaved. In the next chair lay Siclone Clark. Siclone got through first, and, stepping over to the table to get his hat, picked up Fitzpatrick's, by mistake, and walked out with it. He discovered his change just as Fitz got out of his chair. Siclone came back, replaced the hat on the table--it had Fitzpatrick's name pasted in the crown--took up his own hat, and, as Fitz reached for his, looked at him.

Everyone in the shop caught their breaths.

”Is your name Fitzpatrick?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Mine is Clark.”

Fitzpatrick put on his hat.

”You're running the 313, I believe?” continued Siclone.

”Yes, sir.”