Furred with snow, and bearded fearfully with ice; creeping like a

mountain-cat on her prey; quivering under the last pound of steam she

could carry, and hissing wildly as McGraw stung her heels again and

again from the throttle, the great engine moved down on the blocked cut.

Unable to reckon distance or resistance but by instinct, and forced to

risk everything for headway, McGraw pricked the cylinders till the

smarting engine roared. Then, crouching like a jockey for a final

cruel spur he goaded the monster for the last time and rose in his

stirrups for the crash.

With never a slip or a stumble, hardly reeling in her ponderous frame,

the straining engine plunged headlong into the curve. Only once, she

staggered and rolled; once only, three reckless men rose to answer

death as it knocked at their hearts; but their hour was not come, and

the engine struggled, righted, and parted the living drift from end to

end.




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