“It is the most romantic and outstanding railway achievement on the globe.” writes Lorne Bartram in the London “Daily Express,” of the non-stop run of the “Flying Scotsman.” The following are some vivid and intimate impressions from his article (obtained during a recent ride on the footplate between London and Edinburgh) of the locomotive men who operate that famous British express.

“Flying Scotsman's” Feat

Every day at ten o'clock the “Flying Scotsman”—the train which makes the longest non-stop run in the world—leaves King's Cross for Edinburgh.

Fourteen coaches and a giant locomotive totalling altogether nearly 600 tons, race info the north from morning until evening for nearly 400 miles without the wheels once coming to rest.

It is the most romantic and outstanding railway achievement on the globe. The train runs for eight and a quarter hours, sometimes reaching speeds of eighty-five miles an hour, sometimes dropping to a crawling pace of fifteen miles an hour as it threads its way over tortuous lines through stations, such as York and Newcastle.

But it never stops!

There was something proudly benevolent in the attitude of the official of the London and North Eastern Railway when he formally presented me with a blue card permitting me to ride on the footplate of the great engine which performs daily this remarkable mechanical feat.

“You're a lucky man,” he said wistfully. “I wish I were going with you.”

It, was nine-fifty o'clock railway time when the long green locomotive No. 4472, with the driver's cab buried behind a massive boiler and a tender as big as a railway coach, backed into platform No. 10 and hooked on the end of the train.

Ben Glasgow one of the company's crack driver's with a faint glint of humour in his steely eyes, stepped down from the cab with his oil can.

“This is Mr. Glasgow,” said the company official, introducing me.

Ben, as I afterwards got to know him, looked at me, pulled out his watch, and walked over to the first driving wheel and tenderly dropped a spot of oil on the bearing.

“And this is Mr. Eltringham.”

I turned to meet the “relief” driver—short, with white hair and fine Grecian features. He shook me effusively by the hand and greeted me in broad Yorkshire.

Fierce Red Heat.

“Sleep,” he said, and disappeared into a carriage behind the engine labelled “Train crew, reserved.”

I showed my blue permit to a policeman who stood by the entrance to the cab. He examined it reverently, saluted, and I stepped onto the footplate.

Albert, the first fireman, was resting easily on a leather seat on the left hand side of the cab.

I looked up at an impressive row of gauges.

Ben Glasgow climbed aboard, lit his pipe, and pulled out his silver watch.

“Right Away!”

“Same as the late Sir Henry Segrave had,” he observed. My heart thumped, page 30 for I noticed that within a minute we would be away.

A crowd of women, grey-haired men. and small boys stood on the platform looking on.

“We get a send-off every day,” said Albert, as he looked behind watching for the signal to leave.

Suddenly he sat upright. “Right away, Ben,” he called over the noise of the hissing steam and the roar of the draught across the top of the fire-box.

The signals had been dropped. Ben grasped a long, shining steel control lever—the regulator—and pulled firmly.

The massive bulk beneath my feet shivered slightly, and we started to move—slowly, gently, with the growing rumble of heavy wheels beneath.

Albert climbed down from his perch now and motioned me into his place.

“I never sit down once we start,” he shouted above the deep roar of the exhaust from the squat smoke-stack ahead.

Trembling, breathless from the effect of the sudden cataclysm that had taken place, awed by the thunder of machinery and the piercing shriek of steam, I crawled on the seat as we plunged at once into the inky blackness of a tunnel.

Into the Light.

I looked across at Ben Glasgow, the man at the controls of this great express, and the man with 350 lives in his hands.

He was leaning over the edge of the cab window gazing ahead. His left hand was holding the handle of the regulator. His grim face was set in relief by the firelight, and I could see his bushy eyebrows lowered as he peered into the darkness ahead.

Albert reached over and shut off the cylinder cocks. He reached up and opened two valves, listening carefully like a man tuning in a radio set. I looked at him inquiringly.

“The injector,” he bellowed, cupping his hands over his mouth close to my ear. “Takes water into the boiler.”

The massive driving rods were moving faster now, and the exhaust from the engine had deepened into a low, throaty roar.

We rattled over the points at New Barnet, with the long trail of nut-brown coaches running smoothly behind, and climbed on. Ben Glasgow still leaned, motionless, like an inflexible image, from his window, gazing ahead.

Albert shut off the injector, examined his gauges, and took up his shovel again.

“Five tons must go in that door before we get to Edinburgh,” he yelled at me.

I inhaled deeply, shifted myself into a fixed, firm position, grabbed the steel window-sill, and waited.

The thunder of the driving-wheels grew louder. The sway of the giant engine increased. Ben Glasgow stood up now and pulled the whistle cord as we raced through a blurred row of buildings which I knew must be Hatfield.

Sixty-five.

We hit a curve with the velocity of a high explosive shell, lurched, and rounded it on to a straight stretch for Hitchin.

Ben Glasgow was sitting down again, and Albert was placidly working his shovel from the tender to the fire-box. The gauges were steady now at top running speed.

Albert leaned over confidentially and shouted:

“Eighty-five.”

I nodded. I didn't doubt it for a moment.

I summoned my courage, braced myself, and leaned out for a swift look at the driving-wheels of the engine. They were spinning furiously, yet with the ease of a sewing machine.

“Offord,” said Albert. “If we don't slow down on this curve we will start on a tour across the fields.”

Thundering North.

Peterborough, then Grantham, then Newark. The Flying Scotsman flew on steadily, thundering its way to the north, with Ben Glasgow silently pulling at his briar pipe and staring ahead.

Shortly after 1.30 we rumbled slowly through York, cleared the maze of points in the yards, and rolled out again on the main line.

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Twenty minutes later John Eltringham, the Yorkshireman, came forward from the train, passing through the narrow corridor that leads through the tender from the coaches, and emerging with a quiet smile on his face.

He produced a large bottle of cold tea, set it near the boiler to get hot, looked at the gauges above him, and silently took over the regulator from Ben Glasgow.

The relief fireman nudged Albert in the ribs and picked up a different shovel.

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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