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5.
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With a grunt of relief, Bill said, "Pants up," as he pushed the PANTOGRAPH UP button. "There she goes," he said in a moment, as the pan twanged against the wire. Then he shut off and notched on again, transferring from battery to trolley as we slowed perceptibly during the changeover.

"[[italics]]Now[[/italics]] we got somethin'," he said with satisfaction, continuing to notch while watching the ammeter. With each advance of the controller, the needle swung ahead accompanied by a reassuring surge of tractive effort. At last we were picking up the train with the unlimited power of the catenary behind us. "Feel that Kiddie-Kar pull," Bill yelled confidently. Then he leaned out the window to admire the seemingly endless string of cars winding out of the yard. Still leaning out the window, he gave her another notch.

"Watch your ammeter, Bill." I warned him. Just then there was an ominous rumble as the locomotive began vibrating heavily. "We're slipping!" I yelled at him.

Bill whipped his head inside the cab. "Sonabitch!" he exclaimed, slamming the controller off, then notching on. The slip had cost us 2 precious miles an hour. However, we began picking up again, slowly but definitely, with the whole train now on the grade. The accelerating contactors were barking. The ventilating fans droned. The diesel was roaring away at her recharging job. Most thrilling, though, was the feel of the Kiddie-Kar laying into the big pull enthusiastically, trucks, center sill, and draft gear taut with strain, the gearing singing deeply and resonantly, as Bill continued to feed her the amps to just below the slipping point. I recalled a comment ascribed to wonderful old Hermann Lemp, one of the diesel-electric pioneers who was still working at Erie when I arrived there: "To hell mit der volts! It's der 
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amps dot count!" But der amps had to be backed up by der volts, and we were now in that happy position.

We reached the mainline crossovers at 12 mph. Dutifully, Bill shut off the sand and cut back enough to avoid slipping as our wheels crossed the specialwork. Then he sanded again and notched out. Soon we were in the tunnel, still accelerating. Behind us were close to a mile of cars trundling along steadily. It didn't matter that they were mostly empties. We'd pulled 102 cars out of J.C. yard. A few minutes later, we eased proudly by Paddy Murray's shanty at East Secaucus and paraded our brood of 102 past that tough but ingratiating old-timer. Our only regret was our inability to parade the string by the irreverent skeptic, Joe Kron, who'd christened the KK's.

As WE'VE NOTED, the KK's real get-up-and-go (as well as the environmental improvement) came from the overhead distribution system. One memorable night toward the end of my assignment, our pantograph failed to raise after we'd pulled under the wire. We stopped and I climbed an end ladder to investigate. A few feet above me, silhouetted blackly against a starry sky, was the silent, deadly catenary. I shivered. But in spite of my revulsion, I knew I was looking at what we would call today a great antipollutant--so great, in fact, that it may well be on the verge of a new lease on life.

Sadly, however, the KK's were not long for this world. As larger diesel-electrics were developed, it was inevitable they would replace the KK's, whose internal-power economics were vulnerable. Ironically, it was the engine-battery power plant, which had been both effective and reliable, that eventually was responsible for the KK's being scrapped in 1946.
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[[handwritten text]]The End.
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