l, perhaps not. Just a railroad man for forty years, just an
engineer, and the best of them all--out!

Owsley finished his round, and, instead of climbing into the cab
through the opposite gangway, came back to the front-end and halted
before Jim Clarihue.

"I see you got that injector valve packed at last," said he
approvingly. "She looks cleaner under the guard-plates than I've seen
her for a long time, too. Give me the 'table, Jim."

Not one of them answered. Regan said afterward that he felt as though
there'd been a head-on smash somewhere inside of him. But Owsley
didn't seem to expect any answer. He went on down the side of the
locomotive, went in through the gangway, and the next instant the steam
came purring into the cylinders, just warming her up for a moment, as
Owsley always did before he moved out of the roundhouse.

It was Clarihue then who spoke--with a kind of catchy jerk:

"She's stiff from the shops. He ain't strong enough to hold her on the
'table."

Regan looked at Paxley--and tugged at his scraggly little brown
mustache.

"You'll have to get him out of there, Bob," he said gruffly, to hide
his emotion. "Get him out--gently."

The steam was coming now into the cylinders with a more businesslike
rush--and Paxley jumped for the cab. As he climbed in, Brannigan
followed, and in a sort of helpless way hung in the gangway behind him.
Owsley was standing up, his hand on the throttle, and evidently puzzled
a little at the stiffness of the reversing lever, that refused to budge
on the segment with what strength he had in one hand to give to it.

Paxley reached over and tried to loosen Owsley's hand on the throttle.

"Let me take her, Jake," he said.

Owsley stared at him for a moment in mingled perplexity and irritation.

"What in blazes would I let you take her for?" he snapped suddenly, and
attempted to shoulder Paxley aside. "Get out of here, and mind your
own business! Get out!" He snatched his wrist away from Paxley's
fingers and gave a jerk at the throttle--and the 1601 began to move.

The 'table wasn't set, and Paxley had no time for hesitation. More
roughly than he had any wish to do it, he brushed Owsley's hand from
the throttle and latched the throttle shut.

And then, quick as a cat, Owsley was on him.

It wasn't much of a fight--hardly a fight at all--Owsley, from three
weeks on his back, was dropping weak. But Owsley snatched up a spanner
that was lying on the sea