Neither did his comrade know.
But under Casey's grin shone something simple, radiant, hard as
steel.
"Put yer shoulders ag'in' an' shove me off," he ordered.
Like automatons the silent laborers started the car.
"Drill, ye terriers, drill! Drill, ye terriers, drill!" sang Casey,
as he stood at the wheel-brake.
The car gathered momentum. McDermott was the last to let go.
"Good luck to yez!" he shouted, hoarsely.
"Mac, tell thim yez saw me!" called Casey. Then he waved his hand in
good-by to the crowd. Their response was a short, ringing yell. They
watched the car glide slowly out of sight.
For a few moments Casey was more concerned with the fact that a
breeze had blown out his pipe than with anything else. Skilful as
years had made him, he found unusual difficulty in relighting it,
and he would not have been beyond stopping the car to accomplish
that imperative need. When he had succeeded and glanced back the
station was out of sight.
Casey fixed his eyes upon the curve of the track ahead where it
disappeared between the sage-covered sandy banks. Here the grade was
scarcely perceptible to any but experienced eyes. And the gravel-car
crept along as if it would stop any moment. But Casey knew that it
was not likely to stop, and if it did he could start it again.
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