After reaching the mainland we would be
all right, but there was that confounded three mile bridge to cross. We
boarded engine 341, with Dad Duffy at the throttle, and at four-fifteen
he pulled out. Water was still over the track and we proceeded at a
snail-like pace. Just at the edge of the bridge we stopped; Dad looked
over the situation and said:
"The water is within two inches of the fire-box now, and it's doubtful
if we can get across, but here goes and God save us all."
The sensation when we first struck that bridge and realized that we were
literally on a water support, was anything but pleasant, and I reckon
most of us uttered the first prayer in many a day. Slowly we crept
along, and just as we were in the middle of the structure the draw
sagged a little, and _kersplash!_ out went the fire. A great cloud of
steam arose and floated away on the evening air, and then, there stood
that iron monster as helpless as a babe. Dad looked around at us eight
birds perched up on the tender and said:
"Well I reckon you fellers won't pound any brass in Houston to-night.
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