Part 11 (1/2)

The superintendent looked round at him in surprise, resenting his interference.

”What's the matter with the engine?” he snapped. ”Ain't she good enough?

What's wrong with her? I allow you knows a lot about hosses, Sergeant.

Thar's not many men in the Prairie Provinces knows as much. But come to locomotive engines, all that you know wouldn't take up much room on a news-sheet. I reckon I can give you points and get in front of you every time. What's the matter with 99, anyhow? You ain't overhauled her.”

Sergeant Silk s.h.i.+fted his carbine to his other arm.

”I happen to have had a look at her this morning when she was lying in the siding,” he responded lightly, regarding number 99 as if she were a horse, ”and with all deference to your greater experience, Mr. Garside, I'd say that, like Halkett, she is suffering from overwork. She wants rest. She's needing a tonic. She ought to be put out to gra.s.s. Her truck centre castings are weak; her driving wheel tyres have grooves in them half-an-inch deep; the coupling pin of the tender is worn loose; she wants a new throttle latch-spring, and some of her tubes are leaky.

She's wheezing now as if she had congestion of the lungs. Dare say she'd do credit drawing freight wagons; but for pa.s.senger cars--well, it's your business, not mine.”

Mr. Garside stood with his feet apart and his hands on his hips, critically watching Sergeant Silk through the narrowed slits of his watery eyes.

”If you know such an almighty lot about locomotives, Sergeant,” he said, ”and if you calculate as Joe Halkett ain't fit and capable to manage his own business, pr'aps you'll condescend to take the train along yourself.

She's scheduled to start in three minutes from now, and there's no time to change either engine or driver, see?”

Sergeant Silk looked at the superintendent sharply.

”Are you serious?” he questioned. ”Do you really mean it?”

”Sure!” nodded the superintendent. ”I allow there's some truth in what you say. She ain't just in the best of health, and there's room in the cab if you'll take charge. You can at least keep an eye on that throttle latch-spring, and keep Joe from droppin' asleep so as he don't run past the switches when the limited is comin' along behind.”

Silk glanced upward into the cab, where Joe Halkett stood awaiting the signal to start.

Joe was looking exceedingly green and ill. He was a tallish fellow, wiry and muscular, with a hard face, dark hair, and sharp, peery eyes. He was reputed to be one of the best drivers in the Canadian Pacific Railway service; it was said that he could manage a cranky engine better than any other engineer west of Winnipeg. But Silk had already noticed that there was something queer about his manner this evening. There was a curious light in his peery eyes and a curious look on his face that did not inspire confidence.

In spite of the roar made by the steam escaping from the safety valve, Joe had heard the superintendent's suggestion that the soldier policeman should ride in the cab, and he signed beckoningly with a backward toss of his head while Silk hesitated.

”You may as well come along, Sergeant,” he pleaded. ”I tell you straight, I ain't fit fer duty to-night, and I'd sooner take on any other trip than this one to Crow's Nest. It ain't my reg'lar line, and I'm some scared. I'm all of a tremble. I'd oughter be home in bed. Ask d.i.c.k if I oughtn't.”

d.i.c.k, his fireman, paused in his work of shovelling coal into the fire-box.

”This yer train ain't anyways safe, Joe drivin',” he said, as the superintendent turned on his heel and strode back towards the rear of the train. ”Dunno what's come over him.”

Sergeant Silk needed no urging. He caught at the rail, mounted the footplate, and swung himself into the cab.

CHAPTER VIII

THREE MOOSE CROSSING

”All right, Joe,” he said soothingly, putting on his overcoat to s.h.i.+eld his tunic from grease and coal. ”Just you do the best you can, and don't worry. I guess you'll feel well enough once you're started. There goes your signal!”

With a loud clang of the engine bell the train moved out of the station, slowly at first, but gathering speed as it left the little town with its flour mills and grain elevators behind.

Silk seated himself on the box and continued smoking his cigar. He was not long in discovering that his judgment of the locomotive had been accurate. She was certainly cranky. Her rods moved jerkily, and there was a constant rattling of loose bolts. The wheel tyres were so badly ground down in parts by the use of brakes that you might almost have believed that she had square wheels. With every revolution as the flat spots. .h.i.t the metals, she dropped with a noisy thud, and then when she went over them she would raise herself bodily again, while the tender rammed her so spitefully that the worn coupling bolts were strained almost to breaking-point.

”Say, Joe,” said the sergeant, ”this is about as comfortable as riding a bucking broncho. How long have your wheels been like this?”