By
questioning I drew from this modest man some details of his
achievement. They did the tightly curved stretch of 17 miles between
Franklin
Grove and Nelson in 14 minutes, and a part of this, beyond Nachusa,
they took
at an 80 mph pace. They covered five miles between Clarence and
Stanwood in
three minutes and a half, and they made two miles beyond Dennison at
over 100
mph. As the mail rushed west, word was flashed ahead that a
hair‑raising run
was being made, and crowds gathered at the stations to cheer and
marvel. Lights
burned late that night in farmhouses, and at every signal station along
the way
a group of eager men were waiting.
'There must have been 500 people
on the platform at Dixon, said White,
telling the story, 'and they looked to me like a swarm of ants, just a
black,
wriggling mass, and then they were gone. We came on to a bridge there
after a
big reverse curve with a down grade, and I guess no one will ever know
how fast
we were going that night, as we slammed her around one way and then
slammed her
around the other way. It was every bit of 90 mph. You got all you
wanted,
didn't you, Fred?'
The fireman looked up, torch in
hand, and remarked in a dry monotone
'Goin' through Dixon I said my prayers, and hung on, stretched out
flat. That's
what I done.'
'Fred and I,' continued White,
'both got letters about the run from the
superintendent. Here's mine, if you'd like to read it.'
The pleasure of the two blackened
men over this graciousness of the
superintendent was a thing to see. For a bit of crumpled paper such as
that
White showed me I believe they would have taken the Mississippi at a
jump,
engine, train and all. Superintendent's orders, superintendent's praise
‑‑there
was the beginning and end of all things for them.
It was only a short ride I took
this night in the cab of 908, five miles
through the yards to the North Western station, where the mail cars
were
waiting, but I felt the power of the great creature, and thrilled with
the
throbbing of her brave heart. What splendid courage she has, I thought,
as we
moved along swiftly among the shadows. How kind she was to us poor,
puny men!
As we lay by the platform waiting
for orders, White took me down on the
tracks and explained how the switches were operated by compressed air
from the
towers.
'Listen!' he said. 'You'll hear
it hiss as the rail moves over. Look out
for your feet. It would take one of them clean off if the jam caught
it. And
it's no fun to lose a foot. I tried it. He held up his right foot.'
'What's the matter
with it?' I said.
'Nothing, only
it's half gone. Shoe's stuffed with cotton. Engine driver
rolled over it.'
Then he told how a few years
before he had been working under his
locomotive when she had suddenly started forward (a cylinder cock not
carefully
closed), and how he managed to escape, all but his right foot.
'I was laid up for a good many months,
but the company stood by me
nobly. That's the way they always treat disabled men, and here I am
today as
sound as a dollar. Well, goodby, sir.'
Five minutes later they were off
for the West, with various North
Western officials waving encouragement.
White's effort and the strength
of 908 would take the train's 250 tons
one‑third of the way to
The first long ride on one of
these splendid locomotives was with the
Burlington Flyer, with Number 590 at her head and Frank Bullard at the
throttle. It was said that the Baldwin Locomotive Works never turned
out a
faster engine than this Number 590. The man must be a giant whose head
would
top her drivers, and for all her 70 tons, there was speed in every line
of her.
She was a young engine, too, only four years old, and Bullard swears he
would
back her in the matter of getting over rails to do anything that steel
and
steam could do. 'She's willing and gentle, sir, and easy running.
You'll see in
a minute.'
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