driver put them all in the shade, and I was
resolved to be a engine-driver, ll wasn't long
before I had to do something to earn my own
living, though I was only a young 'un. My
father died suddenly—- he was killed by thunder
and lightning while standing under a tree out
of the rain—and mother couldn't keep us all.
The day after my father's burial I walked down
to the station, and said I wanted to be a
engine-driver. The station master laughed a
bit, said I was for beginning early, but that I
was not quite big enough yet. He gave me a
penny, and told me to go home and grow, and
come again in ten years' time. I didn't
dream of danger then. If I couldn't be
a engine-driver, I was determined to have
something to do about a engine; so, as I could
get nothing else, I went on board a Humber
steamer, and broke up coals for the stoker.
That was how I began. From that, I became a
stoker, first on board a boat, and then on a locomotive.
Then, after two years' service, I became
a driver on the very Line which passed
our cottage. My mother and my brothers and
sisters came out to look at me, the first day I
drove. I was watching for them and they was
watching for me, and they waved their hands
and hoora'd, and I waved my hand to them. I
had the steam well up, and was going at a
rattling pace, and rare proud I was that
minute. Never was so proud in my life!

"When a man has a liking for a thing it's
as good as being clever. In a very short time
I became one of the best drivers on the Line.
That was allowed. I took a pride in it, you
see, and liked it. No, I didn't know much
about the engine scientifically, as you call it;
but I could put her to rights if anything went
out of gear—- that is to say, if there was nothing
broken—- but I couldn't have explained how the
steam worked inside. Starting a engine, it
just like drawing a drop of gin. You turn a
handle and off she goes; then you turn the
handle the other way, put on the brakes, and
stop her. There's not much more in it, so
far. It's no good being scientific and knowing
the principle of the engine inside; no good at
all. Fitters, who know all the ins and outs of
the engine, make the worst drivers. That's well
known. They know too much. It's just as
I've heard of a man with regard to his inside:
if he knew what a complicated machine it is,
he would never eat, or drink, or dance, or run,
or do anything, for fear of busting something.
So it is with fitters. But us as are not
troubled with such thoughts, we go ahead!

"But starting a engine's one thing and driving
of her is another. Any one, a child a'most can
turn on the steam and turn it off again; but it
ain't every one that can keep a engine well on
the road no more, than it ain't every one who
can ride a horse properly. It is much the same
thing. If you gallop a horse right off for a mile
or two, you take the wind out of him, and for
the next mile or two you must let him trot or
walk. So it is with a engine. If you put on too
much steam, to get over the ground at the start,

you exhaust the boiler, and then you'll have to
crawl along till your fresh water boils up. The
great thing in driving, is, to go steady, never
to let your water get too low nor your fire too
low.   It's the same with a kettle. If you fill
it up when it's about half empty, it soon comes
to the boil again; but if you don't fill it up
until the water's nearly out, it's a long time in
coming to the boil again. Another thing; you
should never make spurts, unless you are detained
and lose time. You should go up a incline
and down a incline at the same pace. Sometimes
a driver will waste his steam, and when he comes
to a hill he has scarcely enough to drag him up.
When you're in a train that goes by fits and
starts, you may be sure that there is a bad
driver on the engine. That kind of driving
frightens passengers dreadful. "When Ihe
train, after rattling along, suddenly slackens
speed when it ain't near a station, it may be in
the middle, of a tunnel, the passengers think
there is danger. But generally it's because the
driver has exhausted his steam.

"I drove the Brighton express, four or five
years before I come here, and the annuals
—- that is, the passengers who had annual
tickets —- always said they knew when I was
on the engine, because they wasn't jerked.
Gentlemen used to say as they came on to the
platform, 'Who drives to-day—- Jim Martin?'
And when the guard told them yes, they said
'All right,' and took their seats quite comfortable.
But the driver never gets so much as a
shilling; the guard comes in for all that, and he
does nothing much. Few ever think of the
driver. I dare say they think the train
goes along of itself; yet if we didn't keep a
sharp look-out, know our duty, and do it, they
might all go smash at any moment. I used
to make that journey to Brighton in fifty-two
minutes. The papers said forty-nine minutes,
but that was coming it a little too strong. I
had to watch signals all the way, one every two
miles, so that me and my stoker were on the
stretch all the time, doing two things at once—-
attending to the engine and looking out. I've
driven on this Line, eighty-one miles and
three-quarters, in eighty-six minutes. There's no
danger in speed if you have a good road, a good
engine, and not too many coaches behind. No,we
don't call them carriages, we call them ' coaches.'

"Yes; oscillation means danger. If you're
ever in a coach that oscillates much, tell
of it at the first station and get it coupled
up closer. Coaches when they're too loose are
apt to jump, or swing off the rails; and it's quite
as dangerous when they're coupled up to close.
There ought to be just space enough for the
buffers to work easy. Passengers are frightened
in tunnels, but there's less danger, now ,in tunnels
than anywhere else. We never enter a tunnel
unless it's signalled Clear.

"A train can be stopped wonderful quick,
even when running express, if the guards act
with the driver and clap oil all the brakes
promptly. Much depends upon the guards.
One brake behind, is as good as two in front.