“I just want to tell you one thing,” said the great man, hoarsely, lifting a trembling finger, “and that is that if you’re all crazy out here I’m not! The man who brought us over that last stretch of road ought to be in an asylum.” “We made the ninety miles in ninety minutes,” said Allan, with some pride. “Well, I won’t stand for anything more of that sort. Give me your word not to exceed fifty miles an hour at any time, or I’ll get off the train.” “Very well, sir,” answered Allan. “Will you put it in writing?” “In writing? What for?” “My orders are to push the engines for all they’re worth.” The great man swore a mighty oath. “Jim, give me a sheet of paper,” he said to his secretary. And a moment later the order was written, in a sprawly scribble: “October 15, 19— “This special will hereafter at no time exceed a speed of fifty (50) miles per hour. “Signed, ————” And Allan still has that order, neatly framed, hanging over his desk. He hurried away and modified the train-orders, so that Clem Johnson, the engineer who was to take the special from Wadsworth to Parkersburg, suddenly lost all interest in life and climbed into his cab in a towering rage. “Lost his nerve,” he said to his fireman, with a jerk of his head toward the private car. “An’ I don’t suppose they’ll be any runnin’ on the same road with Michaels no more—he’ll have the swell-head so bad. It’s tough luck—that’s what I call it—mighty tough luck.” “Them fellers never do have any sand,” observed the fireman, contemptuously. “We’d ’a’ beat Michaels’s time easy.” “O’ course we would!” growled the engineer. “An’ now we’ve got t’ crawl along like a funeral percession. I’ll show him!” and he pulled the throttle open viciously, so that the train started with a jerk that caused the great man to jump with alarm. The engineer observed his orders not to exceed fifty miles an hour, but the trip was not a pleasant one, for all that; for he took a savage delight in banging and jerking the train, so that even the great private car felt the uneven motion, and swayed and groaned and jumped in a manner which reduced its distinguished occupant to the verge of prostration. Finally he called the conductor. “What’s the matter with this track, anyway?” he demanded. “I feel like I was riding over a corduroy road. Has there been an earthquake, or what?” “No, sir,” answered the conductor, who understood what the engineer was doing and was delighted thereat. “There ain’t been no earthquake. The track is perfectly smooth, sir. I don’t think the engine’s working just right—a little uneven.” “Uneven!” repeated the great man. “Is that the best word you can find for it? It reminds me of a bucking broncho! Heavens!” and he buried his face in his hands again. “Huh!” grunted the conductor to himself, as he withdrew. “Lost his nerve!”