“What is?” I growled.

“Engine-driving, of course.  I’m on the road myself.  Goods-pushing just now, but I’ve been on the expresses off and on, though it don’t suit me—­too much flaring hurry.”

He rattled off into technicalities of his trade, embroidered with tales of hair-bristling adventures and escapes.

“Yes, old chum, there’s more in our trade than what most fat-headed passengers thinks.  As long as an accident don’t occur they don’t know what trouble we’ve been to avoiding of it.  I’ve a good mind to give ’em a smash-up now and again just to teach ’em gratitood.  F’instance, me and me mate was running a local down Ilfracombe way last week when what d’you think we runned into?”

“Ilfracombe?” I hazarded sleepily.

“An old cow!  Now what d’ you think of that?”

“It was so much the worse for the coo,” I quoted.

“What say?”

“It was so much the worse for the cow.”

“Worse for the cow?”

“So GEORGE STEPHENSON said, and he invented the locomotive and ought to know, you’ll admit.”

The little man stared at me, his mouth open; for once he seemed bereft of words.  We had slowed to a momentary stop, in a small station and pulled out again before he regained control of his tongue, then he broke loose.

“No, I don’t admit it neither.  I don’t care if your friend George invented the moon, he talks like a fool, and you can tell him so from me.”

“I can’t, unfortunately; he’s—­”

“A chap that talks disrespectful and ignorant of cows like that didn’t oughter be allowed to live.  A cow is one of the worstest things you can run up against.  I’d rather run into a row of brick houses than one of them nasty leathery old devils; and you can hand the information to your chum George.”

“I tell you I can’t; he’s—­”

“Ask any driver or fireman on the road, and if he don’t slip you one with a shovel for your withering ignorance he’ll tell you just what I’m telling you now.  Yes, you and your funny friend.”

“Look here, GEORGE STEPHENSON has been—­”

“Let your funny friend try running into a cow just for ’speriment.  Just let him try it once.  They tangle up in your bogies, all slippery bones and hide, slither along with you a yard or two, and the next thing you know is you’re over an embankment and your widder is putting in for insurance.  Tell your pal George from me.”

The brakes ground on and the lights of a station flickered past the windows.

“My gosh!” exclaimed the red-headed man, springing to his feet, “this is Cullumpton, and I ought to have got out at the station before.”  He wrestled with the door-handle.  “And it’s all through sitting here listening to your everlasting damfool chatter about you and your friend George.”

“Who died forty years before I was born,” said I.  “Good night.”

PATLANDER.

* * * * *