"Do nothing!" snapped Hogan, one wary eye on the monkeys, and the other on the right of way ahead. "If the circus people don't know enough to shut their damned beasts up properly it's their own lookout--it's not our funeral, whatever happens." The advance guard of the monkeys had approached too close to the crest of the high-piled coal, and as a result, while they scrambled back for firmer footing, they sent a small avalanche of it rolling into the cab. This was touching Coussirat personally--and Coussirat glared. Coussirat was no nature faker--he knew nothing about animals, their habits, peculiarities, or characteristics. He snatched up a piece of coal, and heaved it at the nearest monkey. "Get out, you little devil--_scut_!" he shouted--and missed--and the effect was disconcerting to Coussirat. Monkeys are essentially imitative, earnestly so--and not over-timid when in force--they imitated Coussirat. Before he could get his breath, first one and then another began to pick up hunks of coal and heave them back--and into the cab poured a rain of missiles. For an instant, a bare instant, Coussirat stood his ground, then he dove for the shelter of his seat. Soft coal? Yes--but there are some fairish lumps even in soft coal. Crash went the plate-glass face of the steam gauge! It was a good game, a joyous game--and there was plenty of coal, hunks and hunks of it--and plenty of monkeys, "the largest and most intelligent collection on earth," the billboards said. Crash went the cab glass behind Fatty Hogan's head--and the monkeys shrieked delight. They hopped and jumped and performed gyrations over each other, those in the rear; while those on the firing line, with stern, screwed up, wizened faces, blinking furiously, swung their hairy arms--and into the cab still poured the hail of coal. With a yell of rage, clasping at his neck where the glass had cut him, Fatty Hogan bounced forward in his seat. "You double-blanked, blankety-blanked, triple-plated ass!" he bellowed at Coussirat. "You--you _damned_ fool, you!" he screamed. "Didn't you know any better than that! Drive 'em off with the hose--turn the hose on them!" "Turn it on yourself," said Coussirat sullenly; he was full length on his seat, and mindful that his own glass might go as Hogan's had. "D'ye think I'm looking for glory and a wreath of immortelles?" Funny? Well, perhaps. Is this sacrilege--to say it wasn't luck? Crash! There was a hiss of steam, a scalding stream of water, and in a moment the cab was in a white cloud. Mechanically, Hogan slammed his throttle shut, and snatched at the "air." It was the water glass--and the water glass sometimes is a nasty matter. Coussirat was on his feet now like a flash, and both men, clamped-jawed, groped for the cock; and neither got off scathless before they shut it--and by then the train had stopped, and not a monkey was in sight.