was at his heels shrieking: “’T was his hog done it—his hog done it! Let me kill him! Let me kill him!” Then the wrecking-crew laughed; and the farmer put his head out of a window and said that Evans was no gentleman. But ･007 was very sober. He had never seen a wreck before, and it frightened him. The crew still laughed, but they worked at the same time; and ･007 forgot horror in amazement at the way they handled the Mogul freight. They dug round him with spades; they put ties in front of his wheels, and jack-screws under him; they embraced him with the derrick-chain and tickled him with crowbars; while ･007 was hitched on to wrecked cars and backed away till the knot broke or the cars rolled clear of the track. By dawn thirty or forty men were at work, replacing and ramming down the ties, gauging the rails and spiking them. By daylight all cars who could move had gone on in charge of another loco; the track was freed for traffic; and 007 had hauled the old Mogul over a small pavement of ties, inch by inch, till his flanges bit the rail once more, and he settled down with a clank. But his spirit was broken, and his nerve was gone. “’T weren’t even a hog,” he repeated dolefully; “’t were a shote; and you—_you_ of all of ’em—had to help me on.” “But how in the whole long road did it happen?” asked 007, sizzling with curiosity. “Happen! It didn’t happen! It just come! I sailed right on top of him around that last curve—thought he was a skunk. Yes; he was all as little as that. He hadn’t more ’n squealed once ’fore I felt my bogies lift (he’d rolled right under the pilot), and I couldn’t catch the track again to save me. Swivelled clean off, I was. Then I felt him sling himself along, all greasy, under my left leadin’ driver, and, oh, Boilers! that mounted the rail. I heard my flanges zippin’ along the ties, an’ the next I knew I was playin’ ’Sally, Sally Waters’ in the corn, my tender shuckin’ coal through my cab, an’ old man Evans lyin’ still an’ bleedin’ in front o’ me. Shook? There ain’t a stay or a bolt or a rivet in me that ain’t sprung to glory somewhere.” “Umm!” said 007. “What d’ you reckon you weigh?” “Without these lumps o’ dirt I’m all of a hundred thousand pound.” “And the shote?” “Eighty. Call him a hundred pound at the outside. He’s worth about four ’n a half dollars. Ain’t it awful? Ain’t it enough to give you nervous prostration? Ain’t it paralysin’? Why, I come just around that curve—” and the Mogul told the tale again, for he was very badly shaken. “Well, it’s all in the day’s run, I guess,” said 007, soothingly; “an’—an’ a corn-field’s pretty soft fallin’.”