But to the men of the throttle and oil-can, car Naught-seven, in the gift of a hospitable receiver, shortly became a nightmare.  Like most private cars, it was heavier than the heaviest Pullman; and the engineer who was constrained to haul it like a dragging anchor at the tail end of a fast train was prone to say words not to be found in any vocabulary known to respectable philologists.

It was in the evening of a wind-blown day, a week after Kent’s visit to Gaston, that Engineer “Red” Callahan, oiling around for the all-night run with the Flyer on the Western Division, heard above the din and clamor of Union Station noises the sullen thump betokening the addition of another car to his train.

“Now fwhat the divvle will that be?” he rasped, pausing, torch in hand, to apostrophize his fireman.

The answer came up out of the shadows to the rear on the lips of M’Tosh, the train-master.

“You have the Naught-seven to-night, Callahan, and a pretty severe head wind.  Can you make your time?”

“Haven’t thim bloody fools in the up-town office anything betther to do than to tie that sivinty-ton ball-an’-chain to my leg such a night as this?” This is not what Callahan said:  it is merely a printable paraphrase of his rejoinder.

M’Tosh shook his head.  He was a hold-over from the Loring administration, not because his place was not worth taking, but because as yet no political heeler had turned up with the requisite technical ability to hold it.

“I don’t blame you for cussing it out,” he said; and the saying of it was a mark of the relaxed discipline which was creeping into all branches of the service.  “Mr. Loring’s car is anybody’s private wagon these days.  Can you make your time with her?”

“Not on yer life,” Callahan growled.  “Is it the owld potgutted thafe iv a rayceiver that’s in her?”

“Yes; with Governor Bucks and a party of his friends.  I take it you ought to feel honored.”

“Do I?” snapped Callahan.  “If I don’t make thim junketers think they’re in the scuff iv a cyclone whin I get thim on the crooks beyant Dolores ye can gimme time, Misther M’Tosh.  Where do I get shut iv thim?”

“At Agua Caliente.  They are going to the hotel at Breezeland, I suppose.  There is your signal to pull out.”

“I’ll go whin I’m dommed good an’ ready,” said Callahan, jabbing the snout of his oiler into the link machinery.  And again M’Tosh let the breach of discipline go without reproof.

Breezeland Inn, the hotel at Agua Caliente, is a year-round resort for asthmatics and other health seekers, with a sanatorium annex which utilizes the waters of the warm springs for therapeutic purposes.  But during the hot months the capital and the plains cities to the eastward send their quota of summer idlers and the house fills to its capacity.

It was for this reason that Mr. Brookes Ormsby, looking for a comfortable resort to which he might take Mrs. Brentwood and her daughters for an outing, hit upon the expedient of going first in person to Breezeland, partly to make sure of accommodations, and partly to check up the attractions of the place against picturesque descriptions in the advertisements.