So much smoke, so much noise. When Mister Don, resurrected to his seated position on the metal toilet, demanded to know what was happening, Strum found the task almost impossible. The burning diesel ahead of them was spewing out gouts of black smoke so thick it was almost liquid, and the proximity of two other engines filled the cab with a roar so loud that even shouting didn't always do the job.

   "THE CARLISLE TRAIN'S FALLING BEHIND," shouted Strum. "YES, I'M SURE IT IS."

   "AND DUNGCASTER?"

   Strum crossed the cab, and peered out. The smoke filled his nostrils and stung his eyes, but he managed to make out the candy striped engine twenty yards ahead up the track.

   "STILL AHEAD. NOT FAR, BUT STILL AHEAD."

   The old man gazed blindly through his black, burnt eyes, rocking crazily on his toilet, the wind ripping through his white hair. If you ever wanted a picture of madness, thought Strum, that was it.

   "CAN'T WE GET ANY MORE SPEED?" he cried desperately.

   No, they couldn't. The throttle valve was fully open. The old engine was straining so hard that Strum was afraid it would burst. Plates and rivets and joints were juddering into a blur. Once again, thought Strum, it was going to end badly. There was no way they were going to finish this journey intact. Once again his fear turned to anger.

   "WE'LL NEVER DO IT," he shouted. "WE'RE PUSHING ANOTHER ENGINE. WE HAVEN'T GOT THE POWER. IF WE CARRY ON LIKE THIS..."

   "NEVER SAY THAT!" interrupted the old man, trembling with fury. "YOU NEVER SAY THAT! AT A TIME LIKE THIS ... COME HERE, COME CLOSE!"

   He beckoned Strum towards him. Strum bent down, his ear close to the old man's mouth.

   "I thought you understood, Mister Strum," he said. "I thought you knew. What do you think this train runs on - coal and fire and steam? No, Mister Strum. This train runs on faith, and the determination that faith brings. Now that may sound stupid to you..." Stupid wasn't the word Strum was thinking of. "But it makes complete sense to me. Faith. Blind faith. As blind as these eyes, and as strong as this engine. So if you're even thinking of throwing it all away, you might as well jump now."

   He pushed Strum away, roughly. Strum staggered backwards and stared. He didn't know what to say. He was dumb with anger. This ridiculous old man with his ridiculous obsessions was going to get them both killed. Faith indeed. What had faith brought them so far except pain and humiliation and...

   ...and perhaps, in the end, a miracle. Through the right hand window, through the smoke, the candy stripes of the Dungcaster engine crept into view.

   "We're catching them," he said.

   "WHAT?"

   "WE'RE CATCHING THEM!" he cried. "WE'RE CATCHING DUNGCASTER!"

   The old man laughed out loud. "WHAT DO YOU THINK NOW, MISTER STRUM?"

   Strum didn't answer. The engine answered for him. It gathered its old metal bones and gave them one last surge of power. Slowly, slowly, they hauled back the Dungcaster train. Strum saw the cab, and through its windows the Dungcaster driver, mouthing silently, his face a mask of disbelief. And then they were nosing ahead, clear, clear down the track towards...

   Yeovil.

   "'Ere we goes again," said the one with spectacles.

   "To be sure," said the other. "Same 'eavy straw, same big red train."

   "Not as much straw as last yer, but enough Oi reckn to do the jarb."

   "Not bin a good yer fer 'eavy straw, then?"

   "No. No call fer it, y'see. 'Cept this once, loik. You sure we's on the roit track?"

   "Middle track is what Oi wuz told. Left track, Dungcaster, roit track, Carsloiles, middle track, big red train. An' bugger me if that ain't 'er a-comin' now."

   The two men skipped smartly to the side of the track, and watched from there. They were surprised to see that the leading train was in fact two engines, the first one boiling with black smoke and the occasional flicker of flame.

   They scurried up to the top of a low hill, from where they could watch the catastrophe unfold. Again, the big red train would mash the straw beneath its wheels, again those wheels would jolt and stumble on the curve, and once more crash to oblivion. This was going to be fun.

   The diesel engine hit the bale of straw head on, but this time did not suck it under. Instead, the straw impaled itself on the engine's jagged nose, and promptly burst into flame. The two men watched, disappointed, as the train careered on its way, spraying a furious shower of blazing straw in its wake.

   "Oh well," sighed the one with spectacles, "some yer win..."

   "WHAT WAS THAT?" shouted Mister Don.

   There was no need for him to shout now. Carslisles were a long way behind, they were pulling clear of the Dungcaster engine, and the noise level had decreased to a point where they could both hear and feel the dull impact ahead of them. Strum poked his head through the cab window, and immediately withdrew it as a huge cloud of sparks and burning straw stormed past.

   "Straw," said Strum. "It's on fire. I think the diesel's on fire too. I can't see the Scotsman surviving all this."

   "THAT'LL BE YEOVIL, THEN," said Mister Don. "AND DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE SCOTSMAN. HE'LL BE HIDING IN THE BACK, AND THERE'S NOT FAR TO GO. HE'S A BORN SURVIVOR, THAT ONE."

   Not far to go. Strum smiled as the Big Red Train sang along the tracks. They were going home. He could barely believe it. When the old man had told him this was the last journey, he had feared the worst, but now, it seemed, they would reach home in one piece. Nothing could stop them now.

   "We're going to make it, old man..."

   "SHUT UP!" snapped Mister Don.

   "What?"

   "SHUT UP AND LISTEN!"

   Beneath the singing of the train, there was another noise. Strum tried to pretend it wasn't there, but the growl was growing louder.

   "IT'S THEM," said Mister Don.

   Strum looked out. The sparks stung his neck and singed his hair. Ten yards behind them, and gaining, was the Dungcaster train.

   Strum lurched back from the window. His mind was reeling. How could this happen? Victory was so close, yet ... He felt like the exhausted climber, twenty or thirty steps away from the summit, but each step was so agonizing he knew that, before too long, he would black out and slide back down, frozen fingers clawing at the ice. No, this couldn't happen. Not now.

   "HOW FAR BACK?"

   Strum risked another look.

   "About nine yards. They're gaining..."

   "THEN WE'D BETTER DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT," said the old man. "QUICK, UNTIE ME FROM THIS BLASTED TOILET!"

   Strum's trembling fingers untied the straps. The old man raised himself unsteadily to his feet.

   "RIGHT," he said, "TOGETHER WE'RE GOING TO LIFT THIS DAMNED THING, AND DROP IT RIGHT IN FRONT OF THAT ENGINE. I KNOW IT'S NOT MUCH OF AN IDEA, BUT IT'S ALL WE'VE GOT. COME ON, LET'S DO IT!"

   And so it was that the two of them, young and old, strained every sinew to lift the dead weight of the Cheltenham toilet to the lip of the window, and with one last effort, they tipped it out and away, and watched it fall through the smoke and the flames towards the track. They watched it bounce once, then bounce skywards as it was struck by the onrushing train. They watched it arc its way, almost elegantly, twenty feet into the air, rest at the top of its climb, and begin its descent. They watched it fall, and smash like a cannonball through the Dungcaster windscreen. The Cheltenham toilet slammed the driver to the back of his cab. The dead man's handle flicked back, and the Dungcaster train began to decelerate.

   "That was lucky," said the old man, and sat down heavily.

   They said nothing for a long time. Both of them could find no words to describe the wonder of this thing. Strum tried to make sense of it all, but it was not sense which had driven them through this terrible adventure. He remembered the Leyton Ornaments, the ice-storm of Carslisles, the floating inflatables of Crewe. He remembered the Sarfend tornado, the polystyrene illusion of Walsall Car Park, the burning boots of Northampton, the sad seediness of Brighton, the waste of Dungcaster, the Cheltenham toilet - never to be forgotten, through Bristols and Damn Near and Lutontown and Hardlypoo... No, sense hadn't got them through all that. Perhaps the old man was right. Perhaps it was faith, after all.

   "Put the brake on," said the old man.

   Strum couldn't believe his ears. "What?" he asked.

   "Shut down the engine and put the brake on."

   "But...but why? We're nearly there. Where's the sense?"

   "Please," said the old man. "This old engine's done its job. We'll let others take the glory. Please, Mister Strum, do as I say, one last time. Stop the train, and tell me what you see."

   Reluctantly, Strum did as he was told. Almost immediately, the train began to slow. He looked, one last time, out of the cab window, and told Mister Don what he saw.

   It was easier now, because the straw had burnt out, and the smoke was thinning. He saw the diesel engine racing on ahead, freewheeling down a gentle slope, drawing away all the time. He saw a broad river, and a bridge, and green fields under a brilliant blue sky. And across the fields he saw thousands of people swarming towards the diesel, thousands of splashes of red and white gathering round the engine as it slowed to a halt. He saw the Scotsman, scorched and blackened, climb from the cab to be engulfed by the tide of people.

   "You're not crying, are you Mister Strum?" said the old man.

   It was true, Strum could barely hold back the tears. The old engine creaked as its metal plates settled.

   "That should be us," he said.

   The old man smiled. "But it is us," he said. He reached out and touched the side of the cab. "Thank you, old fellow," he said.

   He held out his hand. Strum grasped it firmly, and hauled Mister Don to his feet.

   "Come on, Strum," he said. "Take me home."