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 change in the sex of the approaching or impending thing which might have been confusing to anybody but a railroader, who would have known he was speaking of the train in one instance, the engineer in the other—"and how in the hell's he goin' to do it with that damn wagon on the track? Git 'em to hell off of here, I tell you—git 'em off!"

Tom was calmly, unhurriedly, unhitching the balky horse. He looked up with humorous twinkle in his eyes.

"Send it along," he said. "Maybe a locomotive could move this horse; I've tried about everything else."

The crowd laughed again, a note of friendliness in the sound for this calm young man who didn't hop any faster for all the agent's wrath. Some of the older men offered suggestions, some help, the latter quite in order, the former wasted wind. Tom gave one of them a rope and asked him to tie the end of the double-tree back to the axle, threw the tugs across the balky animal's back and started to lead him out.

But no; the horse had other plans. He braced his legs and set back against the pull on his bit. The crowd slapped him with hats, jabbed him in the belly with thumbs, twisted his tail, and the frantic agent, his eyes as big as eggs, got behind him and pushed. Wasted effort, all. The horse stood there maliciously stubborn, and the train against which the red board was turned came around a curve a quarter of a mile or so north of the station, with such a head of speed it looked as if nothing could save that load of bones, to say nothing of adding those of four pretty good horses to the collection.