Trigger Gospel
“Number Nine was running eighteen minutes late tonight. Coming out of Medora, Quinlan, the engineer, began to open her up in earnest. He had fifty-five miles of nearly straight track ahead, with only a stop for water at Skull Creek and the bare possibility of being flagged at Wetona between him and the end of his run at Bowie. He expected to pick up at least twelve of those eighteen minutes.
The glow from the open fire-box played redly over big Ike Bonura, his fireman, and the sweat that dripped... from Ike’s streaming brow as he toiled with his shovel fell like drops of blood. He had been building steam for half-an-hour. As he continued to pile it on, the cinders fell in an angry shower on the roof of the mail and express car next the tender.
Dick Ferris, the railway mail clerk, braced himself as he distributed the stuff that had come aboard at Medora. He was a colorless, thin-faced man; the green eye-shade that he wore cast a sickly tinge over his countenance.
“This rattler seems to be going places, Waco!”MoreLess
The glow from the open fire-box played redly over big Ike Bonura, his fireman, and the sweat that dripped... from Ike’s streaming brow as he toiled with his shovel fell like drops of blood. He had been building steam for half-an-hour. As he continued to pile it on, the cinders fell in an angry shower on the roof of the mail and express car next the tender.
Dick Ferris, the railway mail clerk, braced himself as he distributed the stuff that had come aboard at Medora. He was a colorless, thin-faced man; the green eye-shade that he wore cast a sickly tinge over his countenance.
“This rattler seems to be going places, Waco!”MoreLess
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