they use to-day, except Jerry took pressure into his brake-pistons straight from the boiler. He spent every cent he had to get one made and put on his pusher. How he used to explain it to me, and tell me what we'd do when he sold his patent! For he was a great friend of mine, Jerry was, and I knew the workings of that brake as well as he did himself. The reason he wasn't around was that he'd taken the pusher down the line to show his scheme to some railroad people. So there stood an engine all alone—the one I was used to, I thought—and it occurred to me there'd be no particular harm if I got aboard and moved her up and down the track a foot or two—you see, I'd never had her single-handed. So I started easy, and reversed her, and played around that way for a while, till naturally I got venturesome. One stunt that Jerry and I loved to try was to check her up short with his patent brake. The poor old pusher never got put to bed without being stood on end a half-dozen times; that suggested to me that I'd slam her down on the shed doors and see how near I could come to them without hitting. I backed 'way off, set her on the corner, yanked the throttle, and we boiled for the shed, me as satisfied with myself as could be. I didn't leave much margin for stopping, so there wasn't a lot of track left when I reached down for the brake-lever, and found—it wasn't there! If some day you reach for something and find your right arm's missing, you'll know how I felt. In the little bit of time before the smash, there wasn't a scrap of my brain working—and then, Holy Jeeroosalum! How we rammed that shed! The door fell over, cleaning that engine to the boiler; stack, bell, sand-box, and whistle lay in the dust, and all of the cab but where I sat. Quicker'n lightning we bulled through the other end, and the rest of the cab left there. How it come I didn't get killed, I don't know—all that remained of the shed was a ruin, and that had a list to port that would have scart a Cape-Horner. I woke up then and threw her over kerbang, but she went into the bunker squirting fire from her drivers. I shut her down, took one despairing look, and says out loud, "I guess I'll go home."

I felt about as bad as falls to the lot of man at any age. Jerry was sure to get into trouble over it; he'd make a shrewd guess at who did it, whether I told or not, and his confidence in me would be a thing of the past—nothing but black clouds on the sky-line, whilst inside of me some kind of little devil was hollering all the time, "But wasn't it a gorgeous smash!"

I went home and to bed that night without speaking, resolved to let my misfortunes leak out when they got ready. That's the kind of resolution I've 

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