ace. There are no
blanks in that lottery--there's little material there for homes of
feeble-minded.

It isn't strange, either, when you come to think of it; fools never go
anywhere, they are just born and raised. If they move it's because they
are "took"--you never heard of a pioneer fool.

One of the strongest characters I ever knew was a runner out there by
the name of Gunderson--Oscar Gunderson. He was of Swedish parentage,
very light-complexioned, very large, and a splendid mechanic, as Swedes
are apt to be when they try. Gunderson's name was, I suppose, properly
entered on the company's time-book, but it never was in the nomenclature
of the road. With the railroaders' gift for abbreviation and nickname,
Gunderson soon came down to "Gun," his size, head, hand or heart
furnished the prefix of "Big," and "Big Gun" he remains to-day. "Big
Gun" among his friends, but simple "Gun" to me. I think I called him
"Gun" from the start.

Gun ran himself as he did his engine, exercised the same care of
himself, and always talked engine about his own anatomy, clothes, food
and drink.

His hat was always referred to as his "dome-casing;" his Brotherhood pin
was his "number-plate;" his coat was "the jacket;" his legs the
"drivers;" his hands "the pins;" arms were "side-rods;" stomach
"fire-box;" and his mouth "the pop."

He invariably referred to a missing suspender-button as a broken
"spring-hanger;" to a limp as a "flat-wheel;" he "fired up" when eating;
he "took water," the same as the engine; and "oiled round," when he
tasted whisky.

Gun knew all the slang and shop-talk of the road, and used it--was even
accused of inventing much of it--but his engine talk was unique and
inimitable.

We roomed together a whole winter; and often, after I had gone to bed,
Gun would come in, and as he peeled off his clothes he would deliver
himself something as follows:

"Say, John, you don't know who I met on the up trip? Well, sir, Dock
Taggert. I was sailin' along up the main line near Bob's, and who should
I see but Dock backed in on the sidin'--seemed kinder dilapidated, like
he was runnin' on one side. I jest slammed on the wind and went over and
shook. Dock looks pretty tough, John--must have been out surfacing
track, ain't been wiped in Lord knows when, oiled a good deal, but nary
a wipe, jacket rusted and streaked, tire double flanged, valves blowin',
packing down, don't seem to steam, maybe's had poor coal, or is all
limed u