The Speculations of John Steele

CONTENTS

IT was a nasty night, with a drizzling rain nearly as thick as a fog—a rain which obscured the signals and left the rails so slippery that a quick stop was almost impossible—yet just the sort of night to make a quick stop imperative if disaster were to be averted.
Young John Steele, station-master, telegrapher, ticket-agent, and man-of-all-work in the lone shanty known on the railway map as Hitchen’s Siding, ignored by all other maps, stood beside the telegraph instrument wondering whether the rain had affected the efficiency of the wires, or whether the train despatcher had gone crazy. Here was Number Sixteen, the freight from the west, coming in, and there were no orders for her. Number Three, known to the outside world as the “Pacific Express,” the fastest train on the road, was already forty minutes overdue, tearing westward through the night somewhere, and John did not know where. All he knew was that she was trying to make up lost time as well as the greasy metals would allow, and here he stood without orders!
Once more he seized the key, and calling the despatched office in Warmington again demanded: “What orders for Sixteen?” Then he went outside, and on his own initiative kicked away the iron clutch that released the distant semaphore. The red star of danger glimmering through the drizzle to the east might hold the express if the driver saw it in time.
Number Sixteen had drawn up to the platform, and as her conductor came forward Steele ran to meet him, shouting: “Sidetrack your train, Flynn! Sidetrack her on the jump!”
“Where’s my orders?” asked the conductor.
“There’s no orders. I order you. Get her off the main line at once.”
“ Your orders! Well, for cold cheek——”