Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 130: what you’re looking at

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

= NH ~f ia’ Py hate ’ ASU ’ ‘3 4 uJ gee ma, ile i alin a's Ge i * ? ny t ," PEE STN CAN bf ‘ <a s ¥ My = 5 — 7 - 2 - 284 ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, | tion. He looked again. Yes, it was Itchy- Witchy. Dinner time. She probably was seeking her father to call him for his meal. She disappeared around a corner of the house, and he saw her again coming down the path toward the railroad. Zeb looked ahead, his mind again on his job, then back to where his train, snakelike, bent into a crescent, following. He closed the throttle, his hand moved the brake valve a fraction, Sixteen slowed down and stopped. Zeb looked up the hillside. There was a bare patch, dark red, newly plowed, where his father had broken the field below the house. A feeling of pride swept over Zeb. Five years ago he had come down from that place, an ignorant boy with nothing but a burning ambition to lure him for- ward. Now he was an engineer, pulling a first-class passenger train. Those years had been well spent. Hard working years, they “were, but even the work had improved him. Zeb White was a tall, well knit man, broad and square across the shoulders. Even through his jumper, those swelling muscles could be seen. His eyes were far-seeing and bright; his jaw was square. ‘There was character written in that firm mouth; there was a touch of softness in its whimsical corners, a flashing glint of tenderness in those sharp black eyes. The railroad had made a man of him, a man of whom any woman might be proud. He glanced back to the mail car. They were slinging out the sacks of mail. Hope she’d get that letter; hope she’d meet him here on the return run. The bustle and stir behind him along the train settled down. The baggage. trucks were being hauled clear. Belated good-byes from friends to departing ones floated up to him above the steady thump-thump of the engine pumps and the low rumble of the burning coal in the fire box below him. “ All aboard!” the conductor’s call rang out followed by the signal whistle, and as Zeb opened up, Sixteen moved away. He made the run to the end of the division, ate at the terminal hotel, anxious, impatient to return. The minutes dragged = by. He glanced at his watch a dozen times in the two hours that Sixteen lay over to return as Seventeen. At last the minute arrived. Zeb was seated on his seat box, his hand on the throttle, his eyes looking back for the high sign since he desired, most of any- thing, to make a good run back to Eccle- fechan and, if possible, make up a few minutes. For deep down inside of him, a «warm glow presaged that those few min- utes would mean a lot to him and to—some one else. He brought his train to a quick, smooth stop, as quick a stop as was possible, with- out chattering the brakes or sliding the car wheels, started and accelerated at each sta- tion with a sure increasing throttle, letting the steam follow the pistons, just heavy enough to turn the drivers to their limit of traction and yet feeling that place where another notch on the throttle would spin the wheels. Zeb knew his business well, and at every look at his watch, his satis- faction increased. Twenty seconds, a full minute, a minute and a half he gained, arid _ as Seventeen pulled into Ecclefechan, he was a full four minutes ahead of schedule. The train stopped, the end of the tender beneath the water spout. Zeb spoke to the fireman: “ Fill her up,” and climbed down. The station lay behind and ten feet be- fore him, standing beside a baggage truck, stood Itchy-Witchy. In half a dozen hur- ried steps Zeb approached, feeling in his pockets for a bit of waste to wipe off his hands. Then he remembered—there wasn’t a thread of waste aboard the engine. A clean white linen handkerchief soon was a greasy wad of cloth as he rubbed it over. his hands. She said: “ Why, hello, Engineer Zeb White! Aren’t you the grand one, though?” Pointing conquettishly to a smear of black oil on his cheek, she scolded: ““ When you’re- greasy, don’t you come near me!” Zeb laughed. “ Bud,” he began, “ Bud, did you all get my letter?” : She colored, looked down at the cinder walk, swinging a shapely foot in an aim- less little half circle, tipping the cinders. She nodded her head in assent. . “ And will you—will you, Bud?” She nodded again, voicing a low “Yes.” = = - : ~ ¥e ie . P= ve. “ wes <= a = ; . - = , = ae a ~~ 4 —— wy ; 7 3 ~~ gen gpm, = ; Fo a ae 3 = is el ee a a 2 < == a ng eel 0 ee ee ee 8 oe ae a a 7 So SS ra” ba ae <= ES a is se Seek — Se =< " : a a gt ae? ~ ~» 5 ae ee ~<a — a -, ~ a ea eg Sy a in ne Nf oe ee org See ee ee ad ~