th
threw the cylinder cocks open with a hiss, the wind and dust blinded and
shook me, and the rails hammered and bruised and pinched my hand, but I
held on. Twenty seconds later I sat watching the red lights of the tenth
sleeper whip themselves out of sight. Then I went back to the cab, and
"Her Eyes" glorified me. "God bless your dear eyes," said I, "where
would we have all been now but for you?"

But the "Eyes" deprecated my remarks, and looked me upon a pedestal, but
the company doctor dressed my hand the next day, and the superintendent
gave the whole crew ten days for backing into that siding.

Another round trip, and I fear I watched "Her Eyes" more than the
signals and the track ahead. "Her Eyes" decided for me, chose for me,
approved and disapproved. I was running by "Her Eyes."

In a telegraph office they asked me if I could do something in a certain
time and I was dazed. I didn't give my usual quick decision, my
judgment was wobbly and uncertain. I must look at my clock--and "Her
Eyes." I went out to the "III" to consult them, lost my chance and was
"put in the hole" all over the division by the disgusted dispatcher.

Then I got to thinking and moralizing and sitting in judgment on my
thraldom. Was I running the "III" or was "Her Eyes?" Did the company pay
me for my knowledge, judgment, experience and skill in handling a
locomotive, or for obeying orders from "Her Eyes." Any fool could obey
orders.

Then I declared for liberty, but I kept away from "Her Eyes." I declared
for liberty in the roundhouse.

I am a man of decision, and no sooner had I taken this oath than I got a
screw driver, climbed into the cab of the "III," without looking at "Her
Eyes," held my hand over the face of the clock and took it down. I
wrapped it up and took it back to the foreman.

"Why, yes," said he, "'Scar Face' was here for it this morning. He's
round somewhere yet. Ain't goin' to railroad no more, goin' into the
real estate business. He's got money, so's his wife--daffool he didn't
quit long ago."

"If 'Scar Face' Hopkins puts that clock over his desk and trusts 'Her
Eyes,' he'll get rich," thought I. Perhaps, though, those eyes don't
reach the soul of "Scar Face" Hopkins; perhaps he don't see them change
as I did; men are conceited that way.

During the next month I got acquainted with "Scar Face" Hopkins, who was
a first-class fellow, with a hand-clasp like a polar bear, a heart like
a steam pulsometer, and a face t