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120 tore down through the Tacoma yards with its broken whistle and smokestack. They had changed some switches behind them and one was on a track that had a fine line of observation coaches that were waiting for the summer trade. It didn’t do much to them; there wasn’t enough left of them to tell whether they were made at Dover, N. J., or Pullman, Ill. From there she went across the turn table into the roundhouse and out through the brick walls into the Puget Sound where she cooled down, and they are still figuring on the cost of the trip. As for Jap himself, on the fall he got mixed badly and lost an arm and a leg by compound fractures. His men escaped with less injury but it didn’t stop him; he got a tricycle that he lives on, and in Tacoma you will see the sign—it’s popular with the railroad men—it reads, “Jap Libby, Railroad Cigar Store.”

A long spell passed and we didn’t do much in Silverton outside of enjoying each other and discussing neighbors. The town got to making improvements after months of public speaking and debates. We finally got a city water works, and it seemed we used to use the