Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 71, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 March 1915 — CHAPTER XXIII. [ARTICLE]

CHAPTER XXIII.

There are two things, according to the-eaying, which cannot be recalled — the aped arrow and the spoken word. Whether spoken in anger or in jest, our winged thoughts will not come back to ns and, where there is no halm for the wound we hare caused, there is nothing to do but let It heaL Bud Hooker was a man of few words, and slow to speak ill of anyone, but some unfamiliar devil had loosened his tongue and he had told the worst about PhlL Certainly if a man were the bravest of the brave, certainly If he loved his girl more than life itself —he would not be content to hide above the line and pour out his eoul on note-paper. But to tell it to the girl—that was an unpardonable sin! Still, now that the damage was done, there was no use of vain repining, and after cursing himself whole-heartedly Bud turned in for the night. Other days were coming; there were favors he might do; and perhaps, as the yesterdays went by, Gracia would forgive him for his plain speaking. Even tomorrow, if the rebels came back for more, he might square himself in action and prove that he was not a coward. A coward! It had been a long time since anyone had used that word to him, but after the way he had knifed “dear Phil” he had to admit he was it But “dear Phil!" It was that which had set him off. 1? If she knew how many other girls—• but Bud put a sudden quietus on that particular line of thought As long as the world stood and Gracia was In his sight he swore never to speak 111 of pe Lancey again, and then he went to sleep. • The men who guarded the case grande slept uneasily on the porch, lying down like dogs on empty sugarsacks that the women might not lack bedding Inside. Even at that they were better off, for the house was close and feverish, with the crying of babies and the babbling of dreamers, and mothers, moving to and fro. It was a hectic night but Bud slept it out, and at dawn, after the custom of his kind, he arose and stamped on hie boots. The moist coolness of the morning brought the. odor of wet

nostrils am ha stepped amt to speak with the guards, and as he stood there waiting for the full daylight the mastee mechanic joined him. He was a full-blooded, round-headed little man with determined views on life, and he began the day. as usual, with his private opinion of Mexicans. They were the same uncomplimentary remarks to which he had given voice on the day before, for the rebels had captured one of his engines and. he knew it would come to some bafm. "A fine bunch of hombres, yes,” he ended, "and may the devil fly away with them! They took No. 9at the summit yesterday and I’ve been listening ever since. Her pans are all burned out and we’ve been feeding her bran like a cow to keep her from leaking steam. If some ignorant Max gets hold of her you'll hear a big noise —that’ll be the last of No. 9— her boiler will burst, like a wet bag. "If I was running this road there’d be no more bran —not since what I Baw over at Aguascalientes on the Central. One of those bum, renegade engine drivers had burned out No. 743, but the rebels had ditched four of our best and we had to send her out Day after day the boys had been feeding her bran until she smelled like a distillery. The mash was oozing out of her as Ben Tyrrell pulled up to the station, and a friend of his that had come down from the north took one sniff swung up into the cab. “Ben came down at the word he whispered—for they’d two of ’em blowed up in the north—-and they sent out another man. Hadn’t got up the hill when the engine exploded and blew the poor devil to hell! I asked Tyrrell what his friend had told him, but he kept it to himself until he could get his time. It’s the fumes, boy — they blow up like brandy—and old No. 9 is sour! “She'll likely blow up, too. But howcan we fix her with these ignorant Mexican mechanics? You should have been over at Aguas the day they fired the Americans. “‘No more Americanos,’ says Mar dero, ‘let ’em all out and hire Mexicans! The national railroads of Mexico must not ■be in the hands of tot" eignera.’ “So they fired us all in a day and put a Mexican wood-passer up in the cab of old No. 313. He started to pull a string of empties down the track, threw on the air by mistake, and stopped her on a dead-center. Pulled out the throttle and she wouldn’t go, so he gave it up and quit. "Called in the master mechanic then a Mexican. He tinkered with her for an hour, right there on the track, until she went dead on their hands. Then they ran down a switch engine and took back the care and called on the roadmaster—*a Mex. He cracked the nut—built a shoo-fly around No. 313 and they left her right there on the main track. Two days later an American hobo came by and set down and laughed at ’em. Then he throws off the brakes, gives No. 813 a boost past the center with a crowbar, and runs her to the roundhouse by gravity. When we left Aguas on a handcar that hobo was running the road. "Ignorantest hombres in the world—» these Mexicans. Shooting a gun or running an engine, it’s all the same—they’ve got nothing above the eyebrows.” “That’s right,” agreed Bud, who had been craning his neck; “but what’s that noise up the track?" The master mechanic listened, and when his ears, dulled by the clangor of the shops, caught the'distant roar ha turned and ran for the house. "Git up, Ed!” he called to the roadmaster, "they’re sending a wild car down the canyon—and she may be loaded with dynamite!" "Dynamite or not,” mumbled the grizzled roadmaster, as he roused up from his couch, “there’s a derailer I put in up at kilometer seventy the first thing yesterday morning. That’ll send her into the ditch!” Nevertheless he listened intently, cocking his head to guess by tha sound when it came to kilometer seventy. (TO BE CONTINUED.)