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Updated: May 26, 2025
He is the greatest man on earth." They were at the far north end of the yard now, under a switchtower, looking down on the four-track way of the main traffic. The Boston Compound was to haul .007's string to some far-away northern junction over an indifferent road-bed, and she mourned aloud for the ninety-six pound rails of the B. & A. "You're young; you're young," she coughed.
He did not hear a raging of telephone-bells in the switch-tower, nor the man, as he leaned out and called to .007's engineer: "Got any steam?" "'Nough to run her a hundred mile out o' this, if I could," said the engineer, who belonged to the open road and hated switching. "Then get. The Flying Freight's ditched forty mile out, with fifty rod o' track ploughed up.
That ain't paint, that's " A burning pain shot through .007's right rear driver a crippling, stinging pain. "This," said .007, as he flew, "is a hot-box. Now I know what it means. I shall go to pieces, I guess. My first road-run, too!" "Het a bit, ain't she?" the fireman ventured to suggest to the engineer. "She'll hold for all we want of her. We're 'most there.
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