The record was broken; the passenger run was his at last; old Hard Luck had actually got over the division without a mishap and in time never before equaled; but instead of exulting over it, as he shut off steam, he found himself marveling how faint and far away the whistle had sounded; had he not felt the vibration of the escaping steam, he would hardly have believed it was the Three-Seven’s stentorian voice. Undoubtedly there was something wrong; he would have to fix it the first thing in the morning. The engine lurched over the switches, and Hosselkus cursed the sudden fog that had dimmed the switch-lamps so he could hardly tell red from white, but at length he pulled up before the Railway Hotel--fortune favored him to the last, he made a splendid stop. With a great sigh of relief he leaned back on his seat, while the eating-house gong banged and thundered a hospitable welcome to the belated guests. “You made a magnificent run, Hosselkus. I’ll fix it with the master-mechanic--you go out on Number Three to-morrow,” called out the superintendent, as he hurried by. Presently a yardman uncoupled the engine and waved his lantern. “All right!” called out the fireman, who was standing in the gangway. The engineer made no move. “What’s the matter?” inquired the switchman, climbing into the cab; “Why in----” The light of his lantern fell upon the engineer’s face; he paused suddenly, for it was white beneath the grime. Hard Luck was taken from the engine, laid upon a bench, and a physician hastily summoned. Engineers, with smoky torches, and trainmen, with lanterns, crowded around with bated breath, while the doctor listened long and attentively for a sound of life, but only the air-pump on the Three-Sevens sighed softly, as the light rings of smoke from her stack floated up, and up, and up in the quiet air, where still a tinge of twilight lingered. “Dead!” said the doctor, and the tension was relaxed. Then they all praised their late comrade, and all agreed that the old fellow had a good heart in him, anyway--that is, all but the doctor, who, as he rose and carefully wiped his spectacles, muttered something about “Organic weakness--told him so.” The next day, as the superintendent had promised, Hard Luck went out on Number Three--but he went in a box, lashed to the platform of the baggage-car. THE DOTTED TRAIL By W. H. Irwin