He
went on, in a hurried way:--
"Todhunter was my palace conductor. One night he was
full, and his palace was hot, and smelled bad of whale-
oil. We did not burn petroleum then. Well, it was a
splendid full moon in August; and we were coming down
grade, making up the time we had lost at the Brentford
junction. Seventy miles an hour she ran if she ran one.
Todhunter had brought his cigar out on the tender, and
was sitting by me. Good Lord! it seems like last week.
"Todhunter says to me, `Joslyn,' says he, `what's the
use of crooking all round these valleys, when it would be
so easy to go across?' You see, we were just beginning
to crook round, so as to make that long bend there is at
Chamoguin; but right across the valley we could see the
stern lights of Fisher's train: it was not more than half
a mile away, but we should run eleven miles before we
came there."
I knew what Mr. Joslyn meant. To cross the mountain
ranges by rail, the engineers are obliged to wind up one
side of a valley, and then, boldly crossing the head of
the ravine on a high arch, to wind up the other side
still, so that perhaps half an hour's journey is
consumed, while not a mile of real distance is made.
Joslyn took out his pencil, and on the back of an
envelope drew a little sketch of the country; which, as
it happened, I still preserve, and which, with his
comments, explains his whole story completely.
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