"Know what them notices say I can get for that? Fined or imprisoned."
He paused for me to marvel at his daring.
"Think I'm mad to take risks like that, don't cher? Well, I aren't neither.
They couldn't catch me out, not they."
He brushed some ash off his lap on to mine and winked sagely.
"Suppose the guard was to come in here and start fining and imprisoning me
for it, do you know what I'd do? I'd swear _you_ did it."
"But I should deny it," I retorted hotly.
"Of course you would, old chum, and I shouldn't blame you neither, but you
wouldn't stand no chance against me"--he leaned forward and tapped me on
the knee as though to emphasize his words--"_I could lie your life away_."
He sank back in his seat, his face aglow with conscious superiority. The
clamour of the wheels increased as if they were live things burning with
the fever of some bloodthirsty hunt.
"Firing her up," said the red man; "always racing time, these passenger
wagons. It's a dog's life and no blooming error." He prodded my foot with
his. "I said 'it's a dog's life and no error.'"
"What is?" I growled.
"Engine-driving, of course. I'm on the road myself. Goods-pushing just now,
but I've been on the expresses off and on, though it don't suit me--too
much flaring hurry."
He rattled off into technicalities of his trade, embroidered with tales of
hair-bristling adventures and escapes.
"Yes, old chum, there's more in our trade than what most fat-headed
passengers thinks. As long as an accident don't occur they don't know what
trouble we've been to avoiding of it. I've a good mind to give 'em a
smash-up now and again just to teach 'em gratitood. F'instance, me and me
mate was running a local down Ilfracombe way last week when what d'you
think we runned into?"
"Ilfracombe?" I hazarded sleepily.
"An old cow! Now what d' you think of that?"
"It was so much the worse for the coo," I quoted.
"What say?"
"It was so much the worse for the cow."
"Worse for the cow?"
"So GEORGE STEPHENSON said, and he invented the locomotive and ought to
know, you'll admit."
The little man stared at me, his mouth open; for once he seemed bereft of
words. We had slowed to a momentary stop, in a small station and pulled out
again before he regained control of his tongue, then he broke loose.
"No, I don't admit it neither. I don't care if your friend George invented
the moon, he talks like a fool, and you can tell him so from me."
"I can't, unfortunately; he's--"
"A chap that talks disrespectful and ignorant of cows like that didn't
oughter be allowed to live. A cow is one of the worstest things you can run
up against. I'd rather run into a row of brick houses than one of them
nasty leathery old devils; and you can hand the information to your chum
George."
"I tell you I can't; he's--"
"Ask any driver or fireman on the road, and if he don't slip you one with a
shovel for your withering ignorance he'll tell you just what I'm telling
you now. Yes, you and your funny friend."
"Look here, GEORGE STEPHENSON has been--"
"Let your funny friend try running into a cow just for 'speriment. Just let
him try it once. They tangle up in your bogies, all slippery bones and
hide, slither along with you a yard or two, and the next thing you know is
you're over an embankment and your widder is putting in for insurance. Tell
your pal George from me."
The brakes ground on and the lights of a station flickered past the
windows.
"My gosh!" exclaimed the red-headed man, springing to his feet, "this is
Cullumpton, and I ought to have got out at the station before." He wrestled
with the door-handle. "And it's all through sitting here listening to your
everlasting damfool chatter about you and your friend George."
"Who died forty years before I was born," said I. "Good night."