deeper the grim line
between his brows. Then it was that he preferred to take out "Nigger."
Stubborn, menacing, rebellious against all his demands, the fight she
gave him--a fight always potentially dangerous--acted as a sedative to
his nerves and seemed to pacify him. At such times Pedro, the Andalusian
with the risque stories and the spicy songs, felt the numbing, evil
humor of his engineer, and grew still.

All along the line, chiming into the uproarious quiverings of the engine
and the whistling gusts of wind, a long colloquy of hate seemed to
develop between the man and the machine. Zureda would grit his teeth and
grunt:

"Go on, you dog! Some hill--but you've got to make it! Come on, get to
it!"

Then he would fling open the furnace door, burning red as any Hell-pit,
and with his own furious hand would fling eight or ten shovels of coal
into the firebox. The machine would shudder, as if lashed by punishment.
Enraged snorts would fill her; and from her smoking shoulders something
like a wave of hate seemed to stream back.

Zureda always came home from trips like these bringing some present or
other for his wife; perhaps a pair of corsets, a fur collar, a box of
stockings. The wife, knowing just the time when the express would get
in, always went out on the balcony to see it pass. Her husband never
failed to let her know he was coming, from afar, by blowing a long
whistle-blast.

If she were still abed when the train arrived, she would jump up, fling
on a few clothes and run to the balcony. Her joyous face would smile out
at the world from the green peep-holes through the plants in their
flower-pots. In a moment or two she could see the train among the wooded
masses of Moncloa. On it came with a roar and a rattle, hurling its
undulating black body along the polished rails. Joyously the engineer
waved his handkerchief at her, from the engine-cab; and only at times
like these did his brow--to which no smile ever lent complete
contentment--smooth itself out a little and seem almost happy.

Amadeo Zureda desired nothing. His work was hard, but all he needed to
make him glad was just the time between runs--two nights a week--that he
spent in Madrid. His whole brusque but honest soul took on fresh youth
there, under the roof of his peaceful home, surrounded by the simple
pieces of furniture that had been bought one at a time. This was all the
reward he wanted. The cold that pierced his bones, out there in the
stor