the water glass, the
gauges and injectors, whose inner workings were mysteries to him--and
clung to the window sill of the cab to keep his seat. He understood
the throttle--in a measure--he had ridden up and down the yards in the
switchers once or twice during the month that was past--that was all.

Quicker came the bark of the exhaust; quicker the speed. P. Walton's
eyes were fixed through the cab glass ahead, following the headlight's
glare, that silvered now the rails, and now flung its beams athwart the
stubble of a butte as the 229 swung a curve. Around him, about him,
was dizzy, lurching chaos, as, like some mad thing, the little switcher
reeled drunkenly through the night--now losing her wheel-base with a
sickening slew on the circling track, now finding it again with a
staggering quiver as she struck the tangent once more.

It was not scientific running--P. Walton never eased her, never helped
her--P. Walton was not an engineer. He only knew that he must go fast
to make the seven miles in eleven minutes--and he was going fast. And,
mocking every formula of dynamics, the little switcher, with no single
trailing coach to steady it, swinging, swaying, rocking, held the rails.

P. Walton's lips were still half parted in their strange, curious
smile. A deafening roar was in his ears--the pound of beating trucks
on the fish-plates; the creak and groan of axle play; the screech of
crunching flanges; the whistling wind; the full-toned thunder now of
the exhaust--and reverberating back and forth, flinging it from butte
to butte, for miles around in the foothills the still night woke into a
thousand answering echoes.

Meanwhile, back in Big Cloud, things were happening in the super's
office. Spence, the despatcher, interrupting Carleton and Regan at
their nightly pedro, came hastily into the room.

"Something's wrong," he said tersely. "I can't get anything west of
here, and----" He stopped suddenly, as Mulligan, flabby white, came
tumbling into the room.

"He's gone off his chump!" screamed Mulligan. "Gone delirious, or mad,
or----"

"What's the matter?" Carleton was on his feet, his words cold as ice.

"Here!" gasped the engineer. "Look!" He dragged Carleton to the side
window, and pointed up the track--the 229, sparks volleying skyward
from her stack, was just disappearing around the first bend.
"That's--that's the two-twenty-nine!" he panted. "P. Walton's in
her--drove me and Dalheen out of the