fireman was doing all he could to queer the run. He had been slow in firing and then had choked the furnace. His movements had been suspicious and then alarming to Ralph, but since leaving Plympton he had acted like a different person. Ralph knew from practical experience what good firing was, and he had to admit that Fogg had outdone himself in the splendid run of the last one hundred miles. He was therefore fully in earnest when he enthusiastically designated his erratic helper as a "brick."
It was hard for Fogg to come out from his grumpiness and cross-grained malice quickly. Half resentful, half shamed, he cast a furtive, sullen look at Ralph.
"Humph!" he muttered, "it isn't any brick that did it—it was the briquettes."
"The what, Mr. Fogg?" inquired Ralph.
"Them," and with contemptuous indifference Fogg pointed to a coarse sack lying among the coal. "New-fangled fuel. Master mechanic wanted to make a test."
"Why, yes, I heard about that," said Ralprquickly. "Look like baseballs. Full of pitch, oil and sulphur, I understand. They say they urge up the fire."
"They do, they burn like powder. They are great steam makers, and no question," observed
