ything, and I tackled the "holy terror."

In fixing up the cab, I noticed an extra bracket beside the steam gage
for a clock, and mentally noted that it would come in handy just as
soon as I had a twenty dollar bill to spare for one of those jeweled,
nickle-plated, side-winding clocks, that are the pride and comfort of
those particular engineers who want nice things, with their names
engraved on the case.

Before I had got everything ready to take the "three aces" over the
turn-table for her breaking-in trip, the foreman of the back-shop came
out with a package done up in a pair of old overalls, and said that here
was Hopkins's clock, which I might as well use until he got around
again--'fraid someone would steal it if left in his office.

Hopkins's clock was put on its old bracket.

Hopkins must have been one of those particular engineers; his clock was
a fine one; "S. H. Hopkins" was engraved on the case in German text. The
lower half of the dial was black with white figures, the upper half
white with black figures. But what struck me was part of a woman's face
burned into the enamel. Just half of this face showed, that on the
white part of the dial; the black half hid the rest.

It was the face, or part of the face, of a handsome young woman with
hair parted in the middle and waved back over the ears, a broad
forehead, and such glorious eyes--eyes that looked straight into yours
from every view point--honest eyes--reproving eyes--laughing
eyes--loving eyes. I mentally named the picture "Her Eyes."

Now, I was not and am not sentimental or superstitious. I'd been married
and helped wean a baby or two even then, but those eyes bothered me.
They hunted mine and looked at me and asked me questions and made me
forget things, and made me think and dream and speculate; all of which
are sheer suicide for a locomotive engineer.

I got a switchman and started out to limber up the "III." I asked him to
let me out on the main line, took a five-mile spin, and sidetracked for
a freight train. While the man was unlocking the switch, I looked into
the eyes and wondered what their owner was, or could be, or had been, to
"Scar Faced" Hopkins, and--ran off the switch. Then I wondered if
Hopkins was looking into those eyes when he and the "III" went into the
Arkansas river that dark night.

A few days after this the "III," Dennis Rafferty and I went into the
regular freight service of the road.

On the first trip, when half wa