Adventure Magazine Cover — page 130: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

124 who had finished their runs and were getting ready to go home. To escape it, Paddy hurried into his work clothes, drew his oil and waste at the oil house, and went out on the ready lot. There his engine, repaired, greased, oiled and watered, stood ready for the moment when the touch of his hand on the throttle would change it from a sleeping mass of steel toa fire-breathing monster of terrible power and speed. It was the lull hour of the evening. A group of runs had just gone out. No. 17 was the only one scheduled to leave before midnight. The ready lot was almost bare of engines. Several slow, massive freight hogs, a couple of little yard pots, and the huge, trim pas- senger locomotive assigned to No. 17 were the only engines there. Paddy climbed up into the cab, switched on the lights, put his lunch-box under the seat, looked at the water, stirred up the fire a little, and then cracked the blower so the fire would be warming up. Then took his long-spout oil can, a wad of waste, a wrench, an oil torch, left the cab and began to oil around and inspect the machinery. He was standing by the right cross-head when Watkins came up out of the darkness and stopped in the shaft of light streaming down from the cab. “Early aren’t your” Watkins called. “No,” replied Paddy moodily. “It’s just late you are.”’ And he buried his can and half his body from sight as he climbed on the guide step and leaned in to oil the driving brake cylinder. Watkins climbed up into the cab. Sev- eral minutes later the left injector overflow pipe spouted steam as he pulled the starting valve handle to put more water in the boiler. The injector did not prime. Again and again Watkins opened and closed the start- ing valve. He was still working when Pad- dy climbed back up in the cab. ‘“‘What’s the matter?” Paddy asked. “The son-of-a-gun won’t work,”’ Watkins replied as he pulled the handle out once more. It failed again. Paddy crossed the cab. “Let me have a try at it,’ he said. But Paddy had no better luck. The in- jector wouldn’t prime. At last he gave it up as a bad job and opened the right one. T. T. Flynn ‘“‘That’ll have to be fixed,”’ he called above the injector’s whine. ‘Better go in an’ get a man to work on it.” Watkins nodded, swung down from the cab and hurried off into the night. Paddy looked at his watch. A good half- hour remained before they were due to leave the ready lot. He sank on his seat, draped his feet on the foot rest, leaned back, lighted a cigaret, and let his moody thoughts stray to the subject of McGann and the various things he would like to see happen to the loud-mouthed super. The cigaret was burning perilously close to his fingers and, in his thoughts, McGann had suffered several varieties of violent punishment, when Paddy suddenly caught the sound of running feet spurning the cinder ballast out in the darkness. Closer. And a form suddenly burst into the light by the cab steps and swung up into the cab. It was Bracket, the gaunt round- house foreman. He was breathing heavily from the run. “McGann just called up!” he burst out. “His wife got struck by an auto a little while ago, in Sky City! She’s dying! They got McGann on long distance and told him a surgeon here in Santee is the only hope! He’s great on brain operations! He’s the last chance—and if he isn’t there by eleven o’clock he can’t do any good! ‘““McGann said he would be at the station in ten minutes with the surgeon! He wants a light engine there to take him and the surgeon to Sky City! You'll have to go! You’re qualified over that part of the division!”’ Paddy sat bolt upright. “Did you see Watkins?” he asked. “Nol” “Left injector won’t work,” said Paddy tersely. ‘‘I sent him for some one to fix it. He might not be back for five or ten min- utes. Haven’t you got another engine and crew who can go?” “No! The others have gone on home. And this is the only engine ready. I can’t get another crew to the station in less than a half-hour, or an hour. That will be time enough to take your train out. But you’ll have to take McGann at once.”’ Paddy’s jaw set. “Tt would be a good thing for the skunk to sit there in the station an’ sweat blood fer awhile,” he snapped. ‘He needs some- thing like that! Ill bet he wouldn’t care a cCoOnmiclboooks C© S|