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 the Consolidation. "That—er—peanut-stand is old enough and ugly enough to speak for himself."

"He has n't bin spoken to yet. He 's bin spoke at. Hain't ye any manners on the Pennsylvania?" said the switching-loco.

"You ought to be in the yard, Poney," said the Mogul, severely. "We 're all long-haulers here."

"That 's what you think," the little fellow replied. "You 'll know more 'fore the night's out. I 've bin down to Track 17, and the freight there—oh, Christmas!"

"I've trouble enough in my own division," said a lean, light suburban loco with very shiny brake-shoes. "My commuters would n't rest till they got a parlour-car. They 've hitched it back of all, and it hauls worsen a snow-plough. I 'll snap her off someday sure, and then they 'll blame every one except their fool-selves. They 'll be askin' me to haul a vestibuled next!"

"They made you in New Jersey, didn't they?" said Poney. "Thought so. Commuters and truck-wagons ain't any sweet haulin', but I tell you they're a heap better 'n cuttin' out refrigerator-cars or oil-tanks. Why, I've hauled—"

"Haul! You?" said the Mogul, contemptuously. "It 's all you can do to bunt a cold-storage car up the yard. Now, I—" he paused a little to let the words sink in—"I handle the Flying Freight—e-leven cars worth just anything you please to mention. On the stroke of eleven I pull out; and I 'm timed for thirty-five an hour. Costly-perishable-fragile-immediate—that 's me! Suburban traffic's only but one degree better than switching. Express freight 's what pays."