The young inventor certainly looked as if he was moving. His eyes were glued to the smokestack of the locomotive, as though it possessed a fascinating influence over him. "Say, there's some draft this morning," observed the fireman, half-way to the crossing, as he threw some coal into the furnace. "I should say so," replied Ralph; "some sparks, too, I notice." "Humph! that new patent spark arrester don't arrest particularly," commented Fogg. "Queer," he added, with a speculative eye on the smokestack. That appendage of No. 999 was shooting out showers of sparks like a roman candle. As she slid the splits at the crossing and got down to real business, the display was very noticeable. "I'd say that some of our old time enemies were doctoring the fuel, if it wasn't that the crowd is off the job after that last drubbing I gave Hall and Wilson," remarked the fireman. "I can't understand it. That draft is pulling the coal up through the flues fast as I can shovel it in. Thunder!" With a yell the fireman of No. 999, as he opened the furnace door to throw in more coal, leaped to one side. A cyclonic stream, like the sudden blast of a volcano, poured out into the cab. CHAPTER XXI ARCHIE GRAHAM'S INVENTION The cab was suddenly filled with smoke, ashes and steam. Something unusual had happened. Unable to determine it all in a minute, Ralph pulled the lever and set the air brakes. Mingled with the jar and the hiss of steam there arose a great cry--it was a vast human roar, ringing, anguished, terrified. It proceeded from the lips of the self-dubbed Lord Montague, and glancing towards the tender Ralph witnessed a startling sight. The monocled, languid-aired nobleman had struck a pose against the tender bar, and as Fogg opened the furnace door and the fire box suddenly belched out a sheet of flame and then a perfect cloud of ashes, the passenger of high degree was engulfed. Fogg, alert to his duty, after nimbly skipping aside, had kicked the furnace door shut. He was not quick enough, however, to prevent what seemed to be half the contents of the furnace from pouring out a great cascade of ashes as if shot from a cannon, taking the astounded and appalled Montague squarely down his front. "Murder!" he yelled, and grasped his head in his hands to brush away the hot ashes that were searing his face. As he did so he became a new personality. His mustache was brushed from his lip and fell to the bottom of the cab, while its former possessor made a mad dive to one side. "Here, you chump!" cried Fogg; "do you want to kill yourself?" and grabbing the singed and frightened passenger, he pinned him against the coal and held him there. In doing this he brushed one whisker from the side of his captive's face, and the latter lay panting and groaning with nearly all his fictitious make-up gone and quite all of his nerve collapsed. "What's happened?" asked Ralph, as they slowed down. "It felt like a powder blast," declared Fogg.