44 looked like a baby-carriage when we got her in front of the
refrigerators. However, after the necessary preliminaries, we gave a
very sporty toot, and pulled out. In a few minutes we were sailing down
the valley.

For fifty miles we bobbed along with our cargo of iced silk as easy as
old shoes; for I need hardly explain that we had packed the silk into
the refrigerators to confuse the strikers. The great risk was that they
would try to ditch us.

I was watching the track as a mouse would a cat, looking every minute
for trouble. We cleared the gumbo cut west of the Beaver at a pretty
good clip, in order to make the grade on the other side. The bridge
there is hidden in summer by a grove of hackberries. I had just pulled
open to cool her a bit when I noticed how high the back-water was on
each side of the track. Suddenly I felt the fill going soft under the
drivers; felt the 44 wobble and slew. Bartholomew shut off hard, and
threw the air as I sprang to the window. The peaceful little creek ahead
looked as angry as the Platte in April water, and the bottoms were a
lake.

Somewhere up the valley there had been a cloudburst, for overhead the
sun was bright. The Beaver was roaring over its banks, and the bridge
was out. Bartholomew screamed for brakes: it looked as if we were
against it--and hard. A soft track to stop on; a torrent of storm-water
ahead, and ten hundred thousand dollars' worth of silk behind, not to
mention equipment.

I yelled at Bartholomew, and motioned for him to jump; my conscience is
clear on that point. The 44 was stumbling along, trying like a drunken
man to hang to the rotten track.

"Bartholomew!" I yelled; but he was head out and looking back at his
train while he jerked frantically at the air-lever. I understood: the
air wouldn't work; it never will on those old tubs when you need it. The
sweat pushed out on me. I was thinking of how much the silk would bring
us after the bath in the Beaver. Bartholomew stuck to his levers like a
man in a signal-tower, but every second brought us closer to open water.
Watching him intent only on saving his first train--heedless of his
life--I was actually ashamed to jump. While I hesitated he somehow got
the brakes to set; the old 44 bucked like a bronco.

It wasn't too soon. She checked her train nobly at the last, but I saw
nothing could keep her from the drink. I gave Bartholomew a terrific
slap, and again I yelled; then turning to the gangway, I drop