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I say de b'ilers is full, my dear frien's. "Full o' what? Whar do dey git water ter run dis gorspil train? Dis heah's been a mighty dry season, an' de cotton-fiel's is a-beggin' now fur water, an' I say whar do de salvation train git water fur de ingine? "Oh, my po' sinner-frien's, does you want me ter tell yer?
"Don't know whose still it was," Webb answered, "but they landed the whole shootin'-match sour mash, kegs, barrels, jugs, demijohns, copper b'ilers, worms, a wagon or two, and some horses." "Who did they ketch?" Drake asked. "I reckon it happened when I was t'other side the mountain." "Nobody, it seems," Webb answered. "The gang was too slick for 'em.
"I ain't a-beggin' yer fur no gol' an' silver wheels fur de passenger trains for de saints, 'caze yer know de passenger kyars wha' ride inter de city o' de King, dey 'bleege ter have gol' and silver wheels ter match de golden streets; but, I say, I ain't axin' yer fur no gol' an' silver wheels to-day, nur no kindlin'! De train is all made up an' de ingine is a steamin', an' de b'ilers is full.
Sure, whin I'd hand in me report to ould Webb, and he'd see where she'd averaged forty ton a day, the big tears'd come into the two eyes av him the Lord ha' mercy on his sowl!" "You never had any trouble with her engines," Matt suggested. "I had throuble keepin' shteam enough in the b'ilers to run thim; but I'll say this for her ingines: Give them a chancet an' they'd run like a chronometer."
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