the envelopes back, look at the children, and say
quietly: "He isn't running any more."

If you have ever gone over our line to the mountains or to the coast,
you may remember at McCloud, where they change engines and set the diner
in or out, the pretty little green park to the east of the depot, with a
row of catalpa trees along the platform line. It looks like a glass of
spring water. If it happened to be Sankey's run and a regular West End
day, sunny and delightful, you would be sure to see standing under the
catalpas a shy, dark-skinned girl of fourteen or fifteen years, silently
watching the preparations for the departure of the Overland. And after
the new engine had been backed champing down, and harnessed to its long
string of vestibuled sleepers; after the air-hose had been connected and
examined; after the engineer had swung out of his cab, filled his cups,
and swung in again; after the fireman and his helper had disposed of
their slice-bar and shovel and given the tender a final sprinkle, and
after the conductor had walked leisurely forward, compared time with the
engineer, and cried, "All Abo-o-o-ard!" then, as your coach moved slowly
ahead, you might notice, under the receding catalpas, the little girl
waving a parasol or a handkerchief at the outgoing train. That is, at
Conductor Sankey; for she was his daughter, Neeta Sankey. Her mother was
Spanish, and died when Neeta was a wee bit. Neeta and the Limited were
Sankey's whole world.

When Georgie Sinclair began pulling the Limited, running west opposite
Foley, he struck up a great friendship with Sankey. Sankey, though he
was hard to start, was full of early-day stories. Georgie, it seemed,
had the faculty of getting him to talk; perhaps because when he was
pulling Sankey's train he made extraordinary efforts to keep on time;
time was a hobby with Sankey. Foley said he was so careful of it that he
let his watch stop when he was off duty just to save time. Sankey loved
to breast the winds and the floods and the snows, and if he could get
home pretty near on schedule, with everybody else late, he was happy;
and in respect of that, as Sankey used to say, Georgie Sinclair could
come nearer gratifying Sankey's ambition than any engine-runner we had.
Even the firemen used to observe that the young engineer, always neat,
looked still neater on the days when he took out Sankey's train.

By and by there was an introduction under the catalpas. After that it
was not