I
got over that a long time ago; but, at the time I write of, I was cranky
about it. The moguls were high and short and jerky, and they tossed a
man around like a rat in a corn-popper. One day, as I was chasing time
over our worst division, holding on to the arm-rest and watching to see
if the main frame touched the driving-boxes as she rolled, Dennis
Rafferty punched me in the small of the back, and said: "Jahn, for the
love ave the Vargin, lave up on her a minit. Oi does be chasing that
dure for the lasth twinty minits, and dang the wan'st has I hit it
fair. She's the divil on th' dodge."
Dennis had a pile of coal just inside and just outside of the door, the
forward grates were bare, the steam was down, and I went in seven
minutes late, too mad to eat--and that's pretty mad for me. I laid off,
and Miles Diston took the high-roller out next trip.
Miles didn't rant and write letters or poetry, or marry some one else to
spite himself, or take the first steamer for Burraga, or Equatorial
Africa, as rejected lovers in stories do. It hurt, and he didn't enjoy
it, but he bore up all right, and went about his business, just as
hundreds of other sensible men do every day.
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