As the car clicked over the switches, the young detective turned to a cold lunch that the black boy had builded in the buffet, for he had not eaten since morning. He had scarcely commenced his meal when the heavy sleeper began to slam her flanges up against the rail and show him that she was rolling. The Alton was one of the oldest of the western roads, and upon this occasion she would take her place as pace-maker for the rest, just as she had taught the Atlantic lines the use of sleeping and dining cars. Indeed it is here, upon these very rails, that we are wont to picture young Mr. Pullman, with a single blanket and a wisp broom, swinging himself into his first sleeper, that was not his, but a rented car. By the time young Watchem had finished his “tea” the roar of passing towns was coming closer and closer together. When the flying engine screamed for a crossing, the whistle sounded above his head, and far away in the rear of his car a rain of fire was falling in the furrowed fields. As well might the engine have been running light, for the one sleeper only served to steady her. She was making a mile on a shovel of coal, and five posts on a single fire. “What’s that?” “Lexington,” said the porter, bracing himself with a hand on a seat at either side of the aisle. “I tell you, boss, we’re flyin’. Dey don’ mak’ no swiftah ingin dan de nine-spot; an’ ef yo’ heah me shout, dat man Jim know how t’ hit ’er, too.” “What’s that?” “Bloomin’ton, sah. I tell you, boss, dese towns am brushin’ by de windahs to-night lak telegraph poles--we’re flyin’, boss,--flyin’, da’s all.” At a station where they took water, the despatcher asked the engineer if he could stand the strain to cover the entire route. They were holding the Midnight Express at the river. This was the most important train on the Van. “Tell him yes,” said the engineer to the operator, as he opened the throttle. The Alton was making history. “We’re goin’ through, Mickey,” shouted the engineer, holding his open watch in the thin glare of light that shot up behind the furnace door that was on the latch. “Good!” said the fireman, catching the enthusiasm that was contagious in the cab. When the two men had worked so, nervously alert, for another hour, they were drunk with the excitement of the trip. They could not talk for the roar and roll of the engine, but they could see each other in the dim light, and smile at each other across the cab. As tank after tank they passed without stopping, the fireman would look over at the engineer, and the driver, making the sign of a man drinking (which means “water” on an engine), would jerk his thumb over his shoulder, and the fireman would go back and sound the engine tank and show the wet line on the shovel handle to the engineer, and he would raise his right hand and wriggle his wrist, which means “All right, let ’er go.”