“Curious, ain’t it?” said Poney, puffing, on the next track. “You an’ me, if we got that man under our bumpers, we’d work him into red waste an’ not know what we’d done; but-up there—with the steam hummin’ in his boiler that awful quiet way...” “_I_ know,” said ･007. “Makes me feel as if I’d dropped my Fire an’ was getting cold. He _is_ the greatest man on earth.” They were at the far north end of the yard now, under a switchtower, looking down on the four-track way of the main traffic. The Boston Compound was to haul ･007’s string to some far-away northern junction over an indifferent road-bed, and she mourned aloud for the ninety-six pound rails of the B. & A. “You’re young; you’re young,” she coughed. “You don’t realise your responsibilities.” “Yes, he does,” said Poney, sharply; “but he don’t lie down under ’em.” Then, with aside-spurt of steam, exactly like a tough spitting: “There ain’t more than fifteen thousand dollars’ worth o’ freight behind her anyway, and she goes on as if ’t were a hundred thousand—same as the Mogul’s. Excuse me, madam, but you’ve the track.... She’s stuck on a dead-centre again—bein’ specially designed not to.” The Compound crawled across the tracks on a long slant, groaning horribly at each switch, and moving like a cow in a snow-drift. There was a little pause along the yard after her tail-lights had disappeared; switches locked crisply, and every one seemed to be waiting. “Now I’ll show you something worth,” said Poney. “When the Purple Emperor ain’t on time, it’s about time to amend the Constitution. The first stroke of twelve is—” “Boom!” went the clock in the big yard-tower, and far away ･007 heard a full, vibrating “_Yah! Yah! Yah!_” A headlight twinkled on the horizon like a star, grew an overpowering blaze, and whooped up the humming track to the roaring music of a happy giant’s song: “With a michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah! Yah! Ein—zwei—drei—Mutter! Yah! Yah! Yah! She climb upon der shteeple, Und she frighten all der people. Singin’ michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah!” The last defiant “yah! yah!” was delivered a mile and a half beyond the passenger-depot; but ･007 had caught one glimpse of the superb six-wheel-coupled racing-locomotive, who hauled the pride and glory of the road—the gilt-edged Purple Emperor, the millionaires’ south-bound express, laying the miles over his shoulder as a man peels a shaving from a soft board. The rest was a blur of maroon enamel, a bar of white light from the electrics in the cars, and a flicker of nickel-plated hand-rail on the rear platform. “Ooh!” said ･007.