21,048
edits
Changes
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
no edit summary
Line 9:
Line 9:
{{Quote|DON'T CALL ME BIG BOY!|Snowball}}
{{Quote|DON'T CALL ME BIG BOY!|Snowball}}
</option>
</option>
+<option weight="0.001">
+{{Quote|Now, my heart feels like an ember...|Big Boy's driver, [[Memories]]}}
<option weight="0.0000001">
<option weight="0.0000001">
{{Quote|Call me Big Boy. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no oil in my firebox, and nothing particular to interest me at the station, I thought I would roll about a little and see the busy part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off of steam and regulating the fuel. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before the scrapyard, and bringing up the rear of every pile of scrap I see; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately going off the rails, and methodically hitting anything in my way—then, I account it high time to get to work as soon as I can. This is THE substitute for some four-wheeled machine that goes on roads. With a philosophical flourish my driver throws himself into the cab; I quietly take some oil. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the rails with me.|Big Boy, written}}
{{Quote|Call me Big Boy. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no oil in my firebox, and nothing particular to interest me at the station, I thought I would roll about a little and see the busy part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off of steam and regulating the fuel. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before the scrapyard, and bringing up the rear of every pile of scrap I see; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately going off the rails, and methodically hitting anything in my way—then, I account it high time to get to work as soon as I can. This is THE substitute for some four-wheeled machine that goes on roads. With a philosophical flourish my driver throws himself into the cab; I quietly take some oil. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the rails with me.|Big Boy, written}}