Every train that passed left some mark behind. From the freights came great pieces of greasy waste, which littered up the ties, or piles of ashes sifted down from the fire-box; while with the passengers it was even worse. The people threw from the coach windows papers, banana peelings, boxes and bags containing remnants of lunch, bottles, and every kind of trash. They did not realize that all this must be patiently gathered up again, in order that the road-bed might be quite free from litter. Not many of them would have greatly cared. “It’s amazin’,” remarked Reddy, in the course of the afternoon, “how little people r’ally know about railroadin’, an’ thin think they know ’t all. They think that whin th’ road’s built, that’s all they is to it, an’ all th’ expinse th’ company’s got’s fer runnin’ th’ trains. Why, on this one division, from Cincinnati t’ Parkersburg, they’s more’n two hunderd men a-workin’ ivery day jest kapin’ up th’ track. Back there in th’ shops, they’s foive hundred more, repairin’ an’ rebuildin’ ingines an’ cars. At ivery little crossroads they’s an operator, an’ at ivery little station they’s six or eight people busy at work. Out east, they tell me, they’s a flagman at ivery crossin’. Think o’ what all that costs!” “But what’s the use of keeping the road-bed so clean?” asked Allan. “Nobody ever sees it.” “What’s th’ use o’ doin’ anything roight?” retorted Reddy. “I tell you ivery little thing counts in favour of a road, or agin it. This here road’s spendin’ thousands o’ dollars straightenin’ out curves over there in th’ mountings, so’s th’ passengers won’t git shook up so much, an’ th’ trains kin make a little better toime. Why, I’ve heerd thet some roads even sprinkle th’ road-bed with ile t’ lay th’ dust! “Human natur’ ’s a funny thing,” he added, shaking his head philosophically, “’specially when it comes t’ railroads. Many’s th’ man Oi’ve seen nearly break his neck t’ git acrost th’ track in front of a train, an’ thin stop t’ watch th’ train go by; an’ many another loafer, who never does anything but kill toime, ’ll worrit hisself sick if th’ train he’s on happens t’ be tin minutes late. It’s th’ man who ain’t got no business that’s always lettin’ on t’ have th’ most. Here comes th’ flier,” he added, as a shrill whistle sounded from afar up the road. They stood aside to watch the train shoot past with a rush and roar, to draw into the station at Wadsworth on time to the minute.