switch lights in the yards. Then he raced
along the length of the platform, jumped from the upper end to the
ground, and lurching a little, up the main line track to where
fore-shortened, unclassed little switching engine--the 229--was
grunting heavily, and stealing a momentary rest after having sent a
string of flats flying down a spur under the tender guidance of a
brakeman or two. And as P. Walton ran, he reached into his pocket and
drew out Nulty's revolver.

There wasn't much light inside the cab--there was only the lamp over
the gauges--but it was light enough to show P. Walton's glittering
eyes, fever bright, the deadly white of his face, the deadly smile on
his lips, and the deadly weapon in his hand, as he sprang through the
gangway.

"Get out!" panted P. Walton coldly.

Neither Dalheen, the fireman, nor Mulligan, fat as a porpoise, on the
right-hand side, stood upon the order of their going. Dalheen ducked,
and took a flying leap through the left-hand gangway; and Mulligan,
with a sort of anxious gasp that seemed as though he wished to convey
to P. Walton the fact that he was hurrying all he could, squeezed
himself through the right-hand gangway and sat down on the ground.

P. Walton pulled the throttle open with an unscientific jerk.

With a kind of startled scream from the hissing steam, the sparks
flying from madly racing drivers as the wheel tires bit into the rails,
the old 229, like a frightened thoroughbred at the vicious lash of a
yokel driver, reared and plunged wildly forward. The sudden, violent
start from inertia pitched P. Walton off his feet across the driver's
seat, and smashed his head against the reversing lever that stood
notched forward in the segment. He gained his feet again, and, his
head swimming a little from the blow, looked behind him.

Yells were coming from half a dozen different directions; forms, racing
along with lanterns bobbing up and down, were tearing madly for the
upper end of the yard toward him; there was a blur of switch lights,
red, white, purple and green--then with a wicked lurch around a curve
darkness hid them, and the sweep of the wind, the roar of the pounding
drivers deadened all other sounds.

P. Walton smiled--a strange, curious, wistful smile--and sat down in
Mulligan's seat. His qualifications for a Brotherhood card had been
exhausted when he had pulled the throttle--engine driving was not in P.
Walton's line. P. Walton smiled at the air latch,