I grew up with it--was soaked in it. My father made me learn
telegraphy before he gave me a motor-boat."
"Why in the world didn't you say so?"
"Well, I have forgotten most of it," he confessed. "I had a
railroad of my own, too, when I was twelve years old. I was
president."
"Indeed!"
"I suppose it was in my blood. We kids stole the lumber for a
track, and I got a hand-car from dad. We formed a close
corporation, and, when another boy wanted to join, we made him go
forth and steal enough boards to extend the line. We finally had
nearly two miles, altogether, with switches, sidings, yards, and
everything; then the fences in that neighborhood gave out. It was
a gravity road--yes, there was extreme gravity in every
department--we'd push the car up and ride down. We had a telephone
system and semaphores, and ran on orders just like a real train.
Grown people heard about it, and paid us five cents a ride, so we
began to declare dividends every Saturday. Oh, it was a great
success. We had a complete organization, too; president,
directors, conductors, section-hands--the section-hands did all
the work and rode between times."
"What happened to it?"
"One day we ran into a cow and broke the vice-president's leg. The
board of directors also had his ear cut, and the indignant
neighbors began to reclaim their fences.
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