He was pushed forward a foot at a time; whirled backward, his rear drivers clinking and clanking, a quarter of a mile; jerked into a switch (yard-switches are _very_ stubby and unaccommodating), bunted into a Red D, or Merchant’s Transport car, and, with no hint or knowledge of the weight behind him, started up anew. When his load was fairly on the move, three or four cars would be cut off, and ･007 would bound forward, only to be held hiccupping on the brake. Then he would wait a few minutes, watching the whirled lanterns, deafened with the clang of the bells, giddy with the vision of the sliding cars, his brake-pump panting forty to the minute, his front coupler lying sideways on his cow-catcher, like a tired dog’s tongue in his mouth, and the whole of him covered with half-burnt coal-dust. “’Tisn’t so easy switching with a straight-backed tender,” said his little friend of the round-house, bustling by at a trot. “But you’re comin’ on pretty fair. Ever seen a flyin’ switch? No? Then watch me.” Poney was in charge of a dozen heavy flat-cars. Suddenly he shot away from them with a sharp “_Whutt!_” A switch opened in the shadows ahead; he turned up it like a rabbit as it snapped behind him, and the long line of twelve-foot-high lumber jolted on into the arms of a full-sized road-loco, who acknowledged receipt with a dry howl. “My man’s reckoned the smartest in the yard at that trick,” he said, returning. “Gives me cold shivers when another fool tries it, though. That’s where my short wheel-base comes in. Like as not you’d have your tender scraped off if _you_ tried it.” ･007 had no ambitions that way, and said so. “No? Of course this ain’t your regular business, but say, don’t you think it’s interestin’? Have you seen the yard-master? Well, he’s the greatest man on earth, an’ don’t you forget it. When are we through? Why, kid, it’s always like this, day _an_’ night—Sundays an’ week-days. See that thirty-car freight slidin’ in four, no, five tracks off? She’s all mixed freight, sent here to be sorted out into straight trains. That’s why we’re cuttin’ out the cars one by one.” He gave a vigorous push to a west-bound car as he spoke, and started back with a little snort of surprise, for the car was an old friend—an M. T. K. box-car. “Jack my drivers, but it’s Homeless Kate! Why, Kate, ain’t there _no_ gettin’ you back to your friends? There’s forty chasers out for you from your road, if there’s one. Who’s holdin’ you now?” “Wish I knew,” whimpered Homeless Kate. “I belong in Topeka, but I’ve bin to Cedar Rapids; I’ve bin to Winnipeg; I’ve bin to Newport News; I’ve bin all down the old Atlanta and West Point; an’ I’ve bin to Buffalo. Maybe I’ll fetch up at Haverstraw. I’ve only bin out ten months, but I’m homesick—I’m just achin’ homesick.” “Try Chicago, Katie,” said the switching-loco; and the battered old car lumbered down the track, jolting: “I want to be in Kansas when the sunflowers bloom.”