Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 143: what you’re looking at

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

THE CALL OF SHINING STEEL, — evening air as the Eastern Mail, with spin- ning drivers, flew over the track. Jim’s white collar was soon wilted, his shirt front, the sparkle of a diamond show- ing through the coal smears, was scorched and grimy. The hand on the steam gauge climbed up to the 175 mark, passed it and three pounds over, the pops opened. The beat of the exhaust was drowned out in the roar of the escaping steam. Jim handed the fireman the shovel. “ Keep her there.” He pointed to the gauge and stood up behind Zeb. For a minute he remained tense, his eyes ablaze, his breath coming fast. Then he reached across Zeb’s shoulder, grasped his hand that held the throttle, and pulled it back another half inch. Zeb looked around, nodded his head, moved off the box, and stood beside Jim, who slid into his place. On the deck below them the fireman hunched over his scoop, bit deep into the coal on the tender. The fire door banged open, and he shot scoop after scoop of coal into that scarlet bed, that with a pop and a sizzle changed the gleaming black lumps into brown bursts of smoke and glowing embers almost as soon as they struck. The train behind slung around the curves, gal- loped up the grades, and pounded down the hills faster than ever cars had rolled on the division before. For Zeb had an impelling motive far stronger, far more pressing than the time-table, to run by to- night. The pops closed, the fireman with white face showing through the grime, climbed wearily on to his seat box. His shoulders sagged. Never had he fought a fire so steadily nor so hard as now. He was beaten. Zeb stepped down on to the shovel sheet, his lips formed the words “ Highball her,” and he motioned ahead to Jim and grasped the shovel. With an easy swinging pitch and a heave that told of long practice, he swung the shovel back and forth be- tween the coal gates and the fire door. Heavy, heaping scoops of coal he han- dled seemingly without effort. The shovel became a thing alive in his hands to swing in a short arc, bury itself in the coal pile, 297 and shoot squarely through the door with a lift and a twist that sprayed the coal over the fire like wind-blown sand. The steam that had begun to drop climbed again. The flreman turned amazed eyes on the gauge. He did not believe it possible to keep her hot with the bar half- way down the quadrant and the throttle open to the last notch. But Zeb, like Jim, was a veteran. He had gone through the same hard school, and all the tricks of firing that he had learned were displayed to-night. Keeping the water in the boiler till it scarcely bobbed in the bottom of the glass, alternately Jim and Zeb stoked, getting every thermal unit from each lump of coal, every ounce of force from each foot pound of steam. When the dispatchers laid out the run- ning schedule for the Mail, they thought that it was as fast as their motive power could haul that train. But as Zeb passed station after station he shot a glance at his watch at each one. The schedule was fast, but the Mail was faster this evening. Minute piled on minute, till a quarter of an hour separated the train from its time on the time-table. Junction City was the first stop. They were halfway there now. Back in the second coach behind the mail and express cars a woman sat anxiously gazing out the window. As the landscape grew dim before her in the fading dusk, by the way an occasional light bobbed past in the blurr, she knew she was riding fast—far faster than she had ever ridden before. She had watched for Jim at the terminal and when he had not appeared again she knew that he was up in the en- gine with Zeb. He probably was handling the train part of the time, and she was glad of it. For his one regret was that he would never again drive an engine. Hitherto she could not understand what it was about railroading that was so ap- pealing, but now the continued fast pace of the train was beginning to thrill her. Now she began to feel dimly a little of what lay behind Jim’s often voiced desire to be on the road again. Just this morning he had said wist- fully: “God, I'd give a thousand dollars just to feel a throttle hot in my hand, to comicbooks, RESTO ONG GR a eee Te ea eh pe ts ay ee » j a ie 4 i i: TALS Py Any; * { XP 9 th r