"They've come away without their cook--those wreckers," he told the gentleman who regulated public utilities. "I think I'll go down with the 'eats.' There's an old hotel across from the railroad track down at the next station, and the landlord, Uncle Dan Hortley, will fix me up." "I'll go with you," said the State official. "I want to get my finger in the pie." So it came to pass that they both went, the private car stopping at the little hotel long enough to get in an overwhelming supply of bread and ham. As they whizzed through the scene of trouble all hands joined at making sandwiches. "Butter them on both sides," said the railroad commissioner. "They're better with the butter on one side," insisted the operating man. The commissioner was not used to back-talk from railroaders, no matter how high their office, and he stuck to his point. "Both sides," he insisted. "One side only," reported the big operating man. "The commission has closed its hearing and issues an order for both sides." "The railroad appeals." But the commission won--it almost always does--and the men down at the embankment ate their sandwiches with a double thickness of butter. Sometimes a refrigerator train comes under the skilled hands of the wreckers, and the cook-car may have more than an abundance of good material right at hand. Beef, chickens, milk--all manner of edibles have been spilled like waste along the right-of-way, and there have been no regrets among the men of the wrecking-boss's crew. Once, a speeding cook-car hurrying to the relief of the laborers upon a wrecked meat-train that had tried to go tangent to a mountain curve, brought reinforcements in the form of ham sandwiches. The wreckers were pretty hungry, but it needed all their hunger to tackle those sandwiches. The meat-train had been filled with ham; it had caught fire. Somehow, three or four hours of work hauling out smoked hams gave no appetite for sandwiches of the same sort. * * * * * On main-line divisions, where traffic runs exceeding heavy, a locomotive stands, steam-up, with the four cars of the wrecking-train. Even on side-line divisions the call for the wreckers will bring the fastest and best engine out of the roundhouse, no matter what her train assignment may be. Things on the railroad stand aside for the wrecker. Limiteds may paw their nervous heels upon sidings while she goes skimming up the line--all time-table rights are hers from the moment that she goes into service. A wire from the seat of trouble brings her into service. "Second Four-twelve in ditch at Grey's Bridge. Broken rail. Engine and two cars derailed. Both tracks blocked. About four killed and injured." That wire has itself had the right-of-way. When "W-K, W-K, W-K" comes persistently calling over a railroad wire, every key closes. "W-K" is the "C-Q-D" of railroading. It is as much as any operator's job is worth, to ignore it.