One of the strongest characters I ever knew was a runner out there by
the name of Gunderson--Oscar Gunderson. He was of Swedish parentage,
very light-complexioned, very large, and a splendid mechanic, as Swedes
are apt to be when they try. Gunderson's name was, I suppose, properly
entered on the company's time-book, but it never was in the nomenclature
of the road. With the railroaders' gift for abbreviation and nickname,
Gunderson soon came down to "Gun," his size, head, hand or heart
furnished the prefix of "Big," and "Big Gun" he remains to-day. "Big
Gun" among his friends, but simple "Gun" to me. I think I called him
"Gun" from the start.
Gun ran himself as he did his engine, exercised the same care of
himself, and always talked engine about his own anatomy, clothes, food
and drink.
His hat was always referred to as his "dome-casing;" his Brotherhood pin
was his "number-plate;" his coat was "the jacket;" his legs the
"drivers;" his hands "the pins;" arms were "side-rods;" stomach
"fire-box;" and his mouth "the pop."
He invariably referred to a missing suspender-button as a broken
"spring-hanger;" to a limp as a "flat-wheel;" he "fired up" when eating;
he "took water," the same as the engine; and "oiled round," when he
tasted whisky.
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