Straining.

“Flying Fox” left King's Cross straining to eat up the miles. The steady throw of the piston-rod and the song of the wheels rolling rhythmically over the gleaming metals ticked off the miles. Green fields slipped by in a whirl. Peterborough was passed; Grantham came and disappeared. We were at Doncaster. The whistle shrieked our approach. Blue-overalled drivers and firemen could be seen, but not heard, cheering “Old Pib.”

All the time we thrilled to the knowledge that we were in a train making world history. York showed a madly waving crowd. The last stage of the journey with the record near at hand was thrilling enough to be nerve-racking.

The passengers crowded to the windows. Our speed never slackened. The couplings between the carriages seemed to groan a protest. The thump of the wheels over the metals seemed to say “Never, never, never, never.”

Then as the tension became almost unbearable, Newcastle came in sight and we cheered like schoolboys. The long platform came near and we slowed down, the wheels changing their rhythm to a more optimistic song. We stopped with easy grace.

There was a shout. The record run was finished.

“I never touched top speed,” Pibworth said to me, “but she is full of power and magnificent to handle. I never once doubted she could do the run. Mutton, my fireman, had a good job-sooner him than me, though he had weeks of training, you know, before we tackled it. But there, we know the long-distance run can be done safely now.”