Across the Tyne.

Jack, the Yorkshire fireman was singing softly to himself as he climbed back into the tender to push the coal forward. Half of the supply was gone by now.

It began to drizzle as we ran slowly into Newcastle over the lofty bridge over the Tyne.

The rain brought on an early dusk as we climbed over the border and settled into the final lap for Edinburgh. Once or twice we accelerated and for a few minutes sped like the wind round rocky crags, through winding valleys, and past the North Sea hundreds of feet below.

Edinburgh Castle stood out in the rain ahead—a cluster of twinkling lights set far up on a mount of velvet-like gloom. There were signs of the city, omnibuses, cottages, and then streets and tramcars, crossings, and multiple signal towers, then the black, yawning opening of the domed station itself.

The “Flying Scotsman” panted slowly to the platform.

Ben Glasgow appeared and passed a word to John Eltringham, I handed him a cloth he had lent me on which to clean my hands, shook the coal dust from my clothes, and stepped down on to the platform of Waverley Station.

“Come again some time,” said Ben, relenting. His steely eyes twinkled as he waved good-bye.

Ben Glasgow, John Eltringham, Albert and Jack, took their locomotive to the engine-shed and slept in Edinburgh.

Up in the morning, back to the footplate, and the same long record-making journey begins back to King's Cross.

What vigorous heroes of everyday life those four railwaymen are—Ben Glasgow, John Eltringham, Albert and Jack.

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