Entering St. Louis.

St. Louis is a city of many terminals and the home of perhaps the greatest ‘puzzle-switch’ interlocking system-entering Union Station-in the world. The river front we had negotiated at a comparatively slow rate of progress. We traversed the elevated stretch, turned abruptly to the right a little way beyond the bridge-Eads Bridge-and rested for a moment out in front of the station. I looked back as we stopped and observed that our train was being cut almost in two.

“They take those southern sleepers off of us before we back in,” explained Parker. “They go out in a little while on another train.” I gazed at the apparently confusing batteries of semaphores, set high and showing a multiplicity page 14 of lights; and wondered how in the name of Mike Sid Bean could tell when one of those lights blinked at him. But, he and Parker were not long in figuring it cut, and after backing for a quarter of a mile, we sat under the shed at Union Station.

Reluctantly, I took leave of those unconcerned, yet plucky and faithful, chaps who kept 79 rushing toward its destination.

“Hope you enjoyed the ride,” remarked Sid Bean cordially as I got up from in front of the fireman's seat, stretched and made ready to climb down out of the cab. I hadn't had time to chat with Sid. Besides, it is against orders to bother the engineer.

“I'm due for a thick steak,” observed Ed Parker, as I was shaking hands with Bean. I didn't wonder. He had earned a whole hindquarter. A fellow who, twice every 24 hours, when on duty, shovels coal every 20 seconds for 160 miles, and moves at least 10 tons from tender to firebox in so doing, merited a broiled steer, so far as I was concerned. Both men invited me to ride on out to the round-house and join them at their favourite restaurant, but family and friends, who had come down in a Pullman on the rear of 79, I knew would be awaiting me at the station gate, so those engine heroes and I parted company.

“Ride with us again, sometime,” chorused the twain, to whom 80 miles an hour through a fog is mere routine.

“First chance I get,” I called back-I, who wonder still why a locomotive, making that speed, stays anywhere near two rails.