human
Tix! The train-boy coasts along behind him, and he says,
gpt
Ap! Pape! Norangz! The brakeman pops his head in at the door, shows you the top of his cap, and roars down into his manly bosom,
human
Tledr!
gpt
Potatoes they grow small in Maumee!
human
Hold her! and round goes the wheel.
gpt
Danger! and he springs to it with a will.
human
Ease her! and off comes the brake with a clank.
gpt
Now I'm going to start!
human
Now I'm going to back!
gpt
Off the track! Off the track!
human
Coming to bridge!
gpt
I see the town!
human
Open the s-w-i-t-c-h! and, through all, the brakeman stands by like a helmsman in a storm. On lightning trains he is not given to much humor, but the article is in him. As you cross Iowa by the Chicago and Northwestern Railway, and approach the great Divide, the stations run: East Side--Tip-Top--West Side. The route through that region is a little monotonous. It is the hammer, hammer, hammer of the wheels in anvil cadence hour after hour. Between cat-naps, small enough to be kittens, you see the great swells of prairie, and then more prairie. But there is a brakeman on one of the trains that can enliven you a little, and always brings up a smile like a glimmer of sunshine. He says
gpt
East Side! or
human
West Side! stupidly enough, but when the train is just halting at the pinnacle, he throws a hearty elation and a double circumflex into his tone, much as if you had asked him what sort of time he had at the great Railroad Ball, and he cries
gpt
TIP-TOP!