"You can't tell me " he said "that cats don't have a sense of humor!"
Celia's explosive laughter disturbed the masquerade, and the two "live" ducks jumped to the floor. "I'm sorry, kitties," she apologized. "I've always heard that cats don't like to be laughed at.... Well, that's all I have to report. I'd better go home and see if Wrigley is recovering from his scare."
As Qwilleran escorted her to the parking area, he said, "I may devise a new strategy this weekend. Shall we get together for a briefing Sunday evening?"
"Okay with me, Chief," she said blithely.
Back at the barn, another pantomime was in progress. Koko was on the telephone desk, pushing the English pencil box with his nose, pushing it toward the edge of the desk.
"NO!" Qwilleran thundered. Rushing to the spot, he caught the antique treasure before it landed on the clay tile floor. "Bad cat!"
Koko flew up the ramp in a blur of fur.
-11-
For his interview with Ozzie Penn, Qwilleran went equipped with his usual tape recorder plus some snapshots of No.9 making her comeback on Audit Sunday, as the newspaper called it. Before leaving, he trimmed his moustache somewhat and hoped he would look more like James Mackintosh, author, than Jim Qwilleran, columnist.
The Railroad Retirement Center was directly across Main Street from the Trackside Tavern, still closed. Two police vehicles were parked at the curb, one obviously from the forensic lab. The Center, formerly a railroad hotel, was a three-story brick building without such unnecessary details as porches, shutters, or ornamental roof brackets.
When Qwilleran walked into the lobby, it was vacant except for a young male telephone operator at the switchboard. Behind him was a bank of pigeonholes for mail and messages, with a room number on each; all were empty. The lobby was clean, one could say that for it. Brown walls, brown floors, and brown wood furniture gleamed with high-gloss varnish, reminding Qwilleran of a press club Down Below that occupied a former jail. Through double glass doors he could see a television screen, lively with colorful commercials. Several elderly men sat around it, staring or dozing. A few others were playing cards.
"Are you Mr. Mackintosh?" the operator asked. "Ozzie's waiting for you. Room 203. Elevator down the hall; stairs at the back."
Qwilleran trusted his knees more than he trusted the grim-looking elevator with folding metal gate. He chose to walk up the brown varnished stairwell to a brown hallway, where he knocked on the brown door of 203. It opened immediately, and there stood the old engineer he remembered from Audit Sunday - a big, husky man, though slightly stooped. He had changed, however, since the debut of No.9. The ruddy face that had beamed with pride in the window of the engineer's cab was now gray and weary.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Penn. I'm the one who's writing a book on railroading in the Age of Steam. Mackintosh is the name."
"Come in. I been waitin'. Where ye from?"
"Chicago."
"Set ye down. Call me Ozzie." His welcome was cordial, although he seemed too tired to smile. He slapped his denim chest and said, "Wore my over-halls for the pitcher."
"Sorry I didn't bring a camera, Ozzie, but I have some good photos of you in the cab of No.9, and they're yours to keep."
The old man accepted the snapshots gratefully. "By Crikey, she be a purty hog, no mistake."
They sat with a small lamp table between them, and Qwilleran set up his tape recorder. "Mind if I record this? Did you drive No.9 in the old days?"
"Yep. I were a young-un then. Them diesels, they be okay, but ain't nothin' like steam!" The man spoke pure Old Moose.
Qwilleran's practiced eye roved over the shabby furnishings without staring or criticizing. "That's a beautiful oil can," he said, nodding toward a shiny brass receptacle with a thin, elongated spout. "How was it used?"
"That were for oilin' piston rods and drivers. Kep' the wheels on the rails for nigh onto fifty year, it did. They give it me when I retired. Better'n the gold watch, it were."
"I believe it! You were a master of your craft, I'm told. What does it take to make a good engineer?"
Ozzie had to think before answering. "l'arnin' to start up slow and stop smooth... l'arnin' to keep yer head when it be hell on the rails... Prayin' to God fer a good fireman... And abidin' by Rule G," he finished with a weak chuckle.
"What's the fireman's job on a steam locomotive?"
"He be the one stokes the firebox an' keeps the boiler steamin'. Takes a good crew to make a good run and come in on time. Spent my whole life comin' in on time. Eleventh commandment, it were called. Now, here I be, an' time don't mean nothin'."
Qwilleran asked, "Why was it so important to be on time?"
"Made money for the comp'ny. Made wrecks, too... takin' chances, takin' shortcuts."
"Were you in many wrecks?"
"Yep, an' on'y jumped once. I were a young-un, deadheadin' to meet a crew in Flapjack. Highballin' round a curve, we run into a rock-slide. Engineer yelled 'Jump!' an' I jumped. Fireman jumped, too. Engineer were killed."
"What do you know about the famous wreck at Wildcat, Ozzie?"
"That were afore my time, but I heerd plenty o' tales in the SC&L switchyard. In them days the yard had eighteen tracks and a roundhouse for twenty hogs." His voice faded away and his eyes glazed as his mind drifted into the past.
Qwilleran persisted with his question.
"It weren't called Wildcat in them days. It were South Fork. Trains from up north slowed down to twenty at South Fork afore goin' down a steep grade to a mighty bad curve and a wood trestle bridge. The rails, they be a hun'erd feet over the water. One day a train come roarin' through South Fork, full steam, whistle screechin'. It were a wildcat - a runaway train - headed for the gorge. At the bottom - crash!-bang! Then hissin' steam. Then dead quiet. Then the screamin' started. Fergit how many killed, but it were the worst ever!"
Both men were silent for a moment. Qwilleran could hear the gold watch ticking. Finally he asked, "Did they ever find out what caused the wreck?"
"Musta been the brakes went blooey, but the railroad, they laid it on the engineer - said he were drinkin'. Saved the comp'ny money, it did, to lay it on the engineer. Poor feller! Steam boiler exploded, an' he were scalded to death."
"Horrible!" Qwilleran murmured.
'Yep. It were bad, 'cause he weren't a drinkin' man."
"So that's why they changed the name of the town to Wildcat! You're a very lucky man, Ozzie, to have survived so many dangers! If you had your life to live over again, would you be a hoghead?"
"Yep." After the excitement of telling the story, the old man was running out of steam.
Qwilleran said, "Too bad the Trackside is closed. We could get some food and drink."
"There be another place down the street," said Ozzie, reviving somewhat. "Better'n the Trackside."
As the two men walked down Main Street, slowly, Qwilleran asked if any women lived in the Retirement Center.
"Nope."
"I hear women never go into the Trackside. Do you know why?"
"Nope."
"Railroads are hiring women as engineers now," Qwilleran said.
"Not up here! Not the SC&L!"
The old man was breathing hard when they arrived at the bar and grill called The Jump-Off. A middle-aged woman with a bouncer's build and a rollicking personality greeted them heartily. Four young women in baseball jerseys were talking loudly about their recent win. A few elderly men were scattered about the room. The hearty greeter took their order: rye whiskey straight for Ozzie, ginger ale for Qwilleran.
When Ozzie had downed his drink, Qwilleran asked, "How did you feel about driving old No.9 and hauling the Party Train?"
"Purty good" was the answer.