A heavy Mogul freight, with a short cow-catcher and a fire-box that came down within three inches of the rail, began the impolite game, speaking to a Pittsburgh Consolidation, who was visiting. “Where did this thing blow in from?” he asked, with a dreamy puff of light steam. “it’s all I can do to keep track of our makes,” was the answer, “without lookin’ after _your_ back-numbers. Guess it’s something Peter Cooper left over when he died.” ･007 quivered; his steam was getting up, but he held his tongue. Even a hand-car knows what sort of locomotive it was that Peter Cooper experimented upon in the far-away Thirties. It carried its coal and water in two apple-barrels, and was not much bigger than a bicycle. Then up and spoke a small, newish switching-engine, with a little step in front of his bumper-timber, and his wheels so close together that he looked like a broncho getting ready to buck. “Something’s wrong with the road when a Pennsylvania gravel-pusher tells us anything about our stock, _I_ think. That kid’s all right. Eustis designed him, and Eustis designed me. Ain’t that good enough?” ･007 could have carried the switching-loco round the yard in his tender, but he felt grateful for even this little word of consolation. “We don’t use hand-cars on the Pennsylvania,” said the Consolidation. “That—er—peanut-stand is old enough and ugly enough to speak for himself.” “He hasn’t bin spoken to yet. He’s bin spoke _at_. Hain’t ye any manners on the Pennsylvania?” said the switching-loco. “You ought to be in the yard, Poney,” said the Mogul, severely. “We’re all long-haulers here.” “That’s what you think,” the little fellow replied. “You’ll know more ’fore the night’s out. I’ve bin down to Track 17, and the freight there—oh, Christmas!” “I’ve trouble enough in my own division,” said a lean, light suburban loco with very shiny brake-shoes. “My commuters wouldn’t rest till they got a parlourcar. They’ve hitched it back of all, and it hauls worsen a snow-plough. I’ll snap her off someday sure, and then they’ll blame every one except their foolselves. They’ll be askin’ me to haul a vestibuled next!” “They made you in New Jersey, didn’t they?” said Poney. “Thought so. Commuters and truck-wagons ain’t any sweet haulin’, but I tell _you_ they’re a heap better ’n cuttin’ out refrigerator-cars or oil-tanks. Why, I’ve hauled—” “Haul! You?” said the Mogul, contemptuously. “It’s all you can do to bunt a cold-storage car up the yard. Now, I—” he paused a little to let the words sink in—“I handle the Flying Freight—e-leven cars worth just anything you please to mention. On the stroke of eleven I pull out; and I’m timed for thirty-five an hour. Costly-perishable-fragile, immediate—that’s me! Suburban traffic’s only but one degree better than switching. Express freight’s what pays.” “Well, I ain’t given to blowing, as a rule,” began the Pittsburgh Consolidation. “No? You was sent in here because you grunted on the grade,” Poney interrupted.