"Let ter go, Ralph!"
John Griscom, the oldest engineer on the road, off duty, but a privileged character on all occasions, stepped from the gossiping crowd of loungers at a little distance. He swung up into the cab with the expert airiness of long usage. His bluff, hearty face expressed admiration and satisfaction, as his rapid eye took in the cab layout.
"I'll hold up the tender rail till we get to crossing," announced Griscom. "Lad, this is front rank service all right, and I'm happy to say that you deserve it."
"Thank you, Mr. Griscom," answered Ralph, his face beaming at the handsome compliment "I don't forget, though, that you helped some."
"Oh, so, so," declared Griscom. "I say, Fogg, you're named right."
It was to Lemuel Fogg that Griscom spoke. Fogg was Ralph's fireman on the present trip. He presented a decided contrast to the brisk, bright engineer of No. 999. He shoveled in the coal with a grim mutter, and slammed the fire door shut with a vicious and unnecessary bang.
"What you getting at?" he growled, with a surly eye on Griscom.
"Fogg—fog, see? foggy, that's you—and groggy, eh? Sun's shining—why don't you take
