sent a train thro’ Hell in them days to prove that railway could be built.  Full lickety smash their train came onto that bridge o’ mine off the sharp curve:  the dagoes went yellow as cheese wi’ fear, th’ Chinks chattered in their jaws, an’ the Japs:  well the Japs hung on to the girder an’ the cranes.  A saw th’ bridge heave an’ swerve, an’ th’ girder went smashin’ to th’ bottom o’ yon creek bed so far below y’ could scarcely see the water; Ross was ridin’ wi’ th’ engineer.  Ross kept his head, ordered them to throw throttle open.  All that saved that train load o’ directors was th’ train got across before th’ weight smashed thro’; way a quick skater can cross thin ice.  Man alive, but A was mad, riskin’ m’ crew o’ two hundred workmen for a train load o’ rash directors!  Th’ train stopped!  A dashed up!  Ross opened out, his throttle was full open:  so was mine; an’ th’ steam an’ smoke escapin’ from yon big mogul,—­well, Wayland, them was my unregenerate days!  A may as well confess, Wayland, A gave him back all he’d given with sulphur thrown in extra; till Donald Smith poked his head out o’ th’ private car callin’, ‘Go on, Ross!  Go on, what are you delayin’ for?’ Well, then, three of us contractors and th’ company doctor was summoned to th’ coast next week.  We were all so mad at the fool rashness, we had our resignations in our pockets.  They had our pay checks ready; but when they saw all four of us had our resignations written, well, everybody took a cool breath; an’ A think mebbee th’ wise little man o’ that private car sent across something to help us wash away bitter memories!  Anyway, ‘twas a hot night, Wayland!  Y’ couldn’t drink one of the four under th’ table; an’ we had cashed our checks at the pay car!  A was playin’ wi’ th’ doctor for partner!  Mebbee, it was that little night cap from the private car, mebbee, well, in an hour or two, three month’s wages for four men was in the middle o’ that table; an’ mebbee th’ loafers in that saloon didn’t sit up!  Mebbee, somebody from that private car didn’t saunter in t’ look us four fools over!  Wayland man, we won it all, th’ doctor an’ me!  Th’ other two wanted to play on their watches, they wud a’ pawned th’ clothes off their backs; but we wouldn’t let them!  We gave ’em back enough to grub stake ’em back to their job!  Then some one says, th’ vera words:  A can hear them yet, ‘Let’s go across an’ hear those damned evangelists:  there’s a white faced whiskers, an’ a little clean shaved jumpin’ jack skippin’ all over the backs o’ the church seats pretendin’ he’s Henry Ward Beecher an’ sayin’ in a fog horn voice, ‘I like that.’  Let’s go an’ raise Hell.

“Wayland, man, we went across!  ’Twas all true, there was the white faced fat man; an’ there was the little clean chopped chap jumpin’ all over the backs o’ th’ seats; an’ there was a lot o’ snivellin’ Saints in Israel, women that cry an’ sissie men that get converted an’ converted at every meetin’!  Man, Wayland, A’d like to dump th’ job