He gave up entirely,
however, rented his house, and said he couldn't fill the bill--there
wasn't a hero in his family as far back as he could remember.
Miles had been making time with the Black Maria for about a week, when
the big accident happened in our town. The boilers in a cotton mill blew
up, and killed a score of girls and injured hundreds more. Miles was at
the other end of the division, and they hurried him out to take a
car-load of doctors down. They were given the right of the road, and
Miles tested the speed of that mogul--proving that a pony truck would
stay on the track at fifty miles an hour, which a lot of us "cranks" had
disputed.
A few miles out there is a coaling-station, and at that time they were
building the chutes. One of the iron drop-aprons fell just before Miles
with the mogul got to it; it smashed the headlight, dented the stack,
ripped up the casing of the sand-box and dome, cut a slit in the jacket
the length of the boiler, tore off the cab, struck the end of the first
car, and then tore itself loose, and fell to the ground.
The throttle was knocked wide open, and the mogul was flying.
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