On the night of the 16th, I was oiling around my Black Maria to take out a local leaving our western terminus just after dark, when a tall, slim old gentleman stepped up to me and asked if I was the engineer. I don't suppose I looked like the president: I confessed, and held up my torch, so I could see his face--a pretty tough-looking face. The white mustache was one of that military kind, reinforced with whiskers on the right and left flank of the mustache proper. He wore glasses, and one of the lights was ground glass. The right cheek-bone was crushed in, and a red scar extended across the eye and cheek; the scar looked blue around the red line because of the cold. "I used to be an engineer before the war," said he. "Do you go to Boston!" "No, to M----." "M----! I thought that was on a branch." "It is, but is now an important manufacturing point, with regular trains from there to each end of the main line." "When can I get to Boston?" "Not till Monday now; we run no through Sunday trains. You can go to M---- with me to-night, and catch a local to Boston in the morning." He thought a minute, and then said, "Well, yes; guess I had better. How is it for a ride?" "Good; just tell the conductor that I told you to get on." "Thanks; that's clever. I used to know a soldier who used to run up in this country," said the stranger, musing. "Dillon; that's it, Dillon." "I knew him well," said I. "I want to hear about him." "Queer man," said he, and I noticed he was eying me pretty sharp. "A good engineer." "Perhaps," said he. I coaxed the old veteran to ride on the engine--the first coal-burner I had had. He seemed more than glad to comply. Ed was as black as a negro, and swearing about coal-burners in general and this one in particular, and made so much noise with his fire-irons after we started, that the old man came over and sat behind me, so as to be able to talk. [Illustration: "_I noticed his long, slim hand on the top of the reverse-lever._" (_Page 21._)] The first time I looked around after getting out of the yard, I noticed his long slim hand on the top of the reverse-lever. Did you ever notice how it seems to make an ex-engineer feel better and more satisfied to get his hand on the reverse-lever and feel the life-throbs of the great giant under him? Why, his hand goes there by instinct--just as an ambulance surgeon will feel for the heart of the boy with a broken leg. I asked the stranger to "give her a whirl," and noticed with what eager joy he took hold of her. I also observed with surprise that he seemed to know all about "four-mile hill," where most new men got stuck. He caught me looking at his face, and touching the scar, remarked: "A little love pat, with the compliments of Wade Hampton's men." We talked on a good many subjects, and got pretty well acquainted before we were over the division, but at last we seemed talked out. "Where does Dillon's folks live now?" asked the stranger, slowly, after a time.