ive--an event not by any means beyond
the bounds of possibility, for it may be written, with more truth of
this, than of any other infant, that he had been born and nurtured amid
thunder, smoke, and blazes.

As might have been expected in the circumstances, he was a powerful
baby. We cannot afford space for a full description, but it would be
wrong to omit mention of the strength of his lungs. The imitative
tendency of children is proverbial. Clearly the locomotive was baby
Marrot's pattern in many things. No infant that ever drew breath
equalled this one at a yell. There was absolutely a touch of sublimity
in the sound of the duet--frequently heard--when baby chanced to be
performing a solo and his father's engine went shrieking past with a
running accompaniment! It is a disputed point to this day which of the
two beat the other; and it is an admitted fact that nothing else could
equal either.

There were two other inmates of John Marrot's house--not members of the
family. One was his fireman, William Garvie, who lodged with him, the
other a small servant or maid-of-all-work who led a rugged existence,
but appeared to enjoy it, although it kept her thin. Her name was Ann
Stocks, familiarly known as Nanny.

We are thus particular in describing the engine-driver's household
because, apart from other reasons, a group of human beings who could
live, and thrive, and eat, and sleep, and love, and learn, and so forth,
in such circumstances is noteworthy.

It was quite a treat--believe it, reader--to see little Gertie and the
baby slumber while the engines were apparently having "a night of it"
outside! Come with us and behold. It is 10:30 p.m. Father is crossing
country on the limited mail at any pace you choose between fifty and
eighty miles an hour, time having been lost at the last station, owing
to the unaccountable disappearance of a first-class passenger, and time
having to be made up by fair means or otherwise. His mate stands beside
him. In the family mansion pretty Loo sleeps like a "good angel," as
she is, in a small room farthest from the corner next the line, but with
her we have nothing to do at present. Nanny, also sound asleep, lies in
some place of profound obscurity among the coals in the lower regions of
the house, laying in that store of health and vigour which will enable
her to face the rugged features of the following day. We dismiss her,
also, with the hope that she may survive the co