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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 2, Issue 8 (December 1, 1927)

Strangle-hold on Injector Handle

Strangle-hold on Injector Handle.

Ten miles, with a fast moving train, are soon put behind. I was conscious, presently, of a violent lurching and plunging of the locomotive.

“Going through Chatham,” yelled the fireman. I heard him, but only because he was close behind me. I plied a strangle-hold on the injector handle. If that locomotive didn't leave the rails, it seemed, it wouldn't be because it wasn't trying nobly to do so.

“These frogs and switches through towns is hell,” the fireman was yelling, but I was watching something else. Just as we cleared the little town, a white sheet spread suddenly in front of the headlight. Fog! I turned and asked Ed Parker how fast we were going.

“Around seventy,” he called, as I inclined my ear. It was too bad, I reasoned-thirty-five minutes late, then fog. I waited for 659 to slacken its speed. In a moment, Bean yelled across to our side:

“Clear block!”

Parker, returning from the firebox, repeated the call.

“Don't you ever slow up for a fog?” I asked him. The fireman looked surprised. There was no use trying to look ahead, so I concentrated on an effort-summoning all the lung power I had-to talk things over with Parker.

“What'd we want to slow up for?” he yelled, comfortingly. “Besides, we're late.” That, of course, was true; but what did that have to do with the price of battleships, on a night like this?