"That'll do, boys; we'll let Gallagher hit it a few times now," he sang
out, when he saw that the weaker ones among the shovelers were stumbling
numbly and throwing wild. "Get back to the car and thaw yourselves out."

The safety-valve of the 206 was stuttering under a gratifying increase
of steam pressure when the superintendent climbed to the canvas-shrouded
cab.

"Ha! two hundred and fifty pounds! That looks a little more like it,
Michael. Now get all the run you can and hit her straight from the
shoulder," he ordered, mounting to his seat on the fireman's box, and
bracing himself for what should come.

Gallagher released the driver-brakes and let the 206 and the plow drift
down the grade until his tender drawhead touched the laborers' car. Then
the reversing lever went forward with a clang, and the steam squealed
shrilly in the dry-pipe. For a thunderous second or two the
driving-wheels slipped and whirled futilely on the snowy rails.
Gallagher pounced upon the sand lever, whereat the tires suddenly bit
and held and a long-drawn, fire-tearing exhaust sobbed from the stack.

"You've got her!" shouted Ford. "Now hit it--hit it hard!"

Swiftly the huge mass of engine and plow gathered headway, the pounding
exhausts quickening until they blended in a continuous roar. The little
Irishman stayed himself with a foot against the boiler brace; the
fireman ducked under the canvas curtain and clung to the coal bulkhead;
and Ford held on as he could.

The shock came like the crashing blow of a collision. The box-plow