Sometimes I am mean enough to think that the romance, the
dramas, and the tragedies of the road don't impress them as being as
interesting as those of the plains, the Indians, or the seas--people are
so apt to see only the everyday side of life anyway, and to draw all
their romance and heroics from books.
I helped make a hero once--no, I didn't either; I helped make the
golden setting after the rough diamond had shown its value.
Miles Diston pulled freight on our road a few years ago. He was of
medium stature, dark complexion, but no beauty. He was a manly-looking
fellow, well-educated enough, sober, and a steady-going, reliable
engineer; you would never pick him out for a hero. Miles was young
yet--not thirty--but, somehow or other, he had escaped matrimony: I
guess he had never had time. He stayed on the farm at home until he was
of age, and then went firing, so that when I first knew him he had
barely got to his goal--the throttle.
A good many men, when they first get there, take great interest in their
work for a few months--until experience gives them confidence; then they
take it easier, look around, and take some interest in other things.
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