Gun knew all the slang and shop-talk of the road, and used it--was even
accused of inventing much of it--but his engine talk was unique and
inimitable.
We roomed together a whole winter; and often, after I had gone to bed,
Gun would come in, and as he peeled off his clothes he would deliver
himself something as follows:
"Say, John, you don't know who I met on the up trip? Well, sir, Dock
Taggert. I was sailin' along up the main line near Bob's, and who should
I see but Dock backed in on the sidin'--seemed kinder dilapidated, like
he was runnin' on one side. I jest slammed on the wind and went over and
shook. Dock looks pretty tough, John--must have been out surfacing
track, ain't been wiped in Lord knows when, oiled a good deal, but nary
a wipe, jacket rusted and streaked, tire double flanged, valves blowin',
packing down, don't seem to steam, maybe's had poor coal, or is all
limed up. He's got to go through the back shop 'efore the old man'll
ever let him into the roundhouse. I set his packin' out and put him in a
stall at the Gray's corral; hope he'll brace up.
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