“Trackwalker reports—bridge—mile above—unsafe,—from washout!” puffed the agent.
“He does, hey?” sneered Conover, “An’ why in blazes didn’t you telegraph the next station below?”
“I was just going to, sir,” faltered the agent, “but as there wasn’t any train due for an half an hour—”
“Is the bridge still standin’?” demanded Conover.
“Yes, sir. But the trackwalker thinks—”
“I don’t pay him to think. I’m doin’ the thinkin’ this trip. Davis,” wheeling on the engineer, “I’m goin’ over this bridge. There’s $500 on the other side of it for you. Want to come? Speak up quick!”
“If—if it’s not safe—” hesitated the man. “This is the heaviest engine on the road and—”
“Get out of here, then!” yelled Conover, ejecting him bodily from the cab. The engineer missed the step and tumbled prone in a blasphemous heap, to the wet track side. Conover did not waste a second look at him, but slipped into the driver’s place and threw off the brake. He had served his term as engineer during his upward flight through the various grades of railroad achievement; and was as comfortably at home at the throttle as in his private car.
The wheels caught the track and the great mass of metal sprang into motion.
“Is there anything else I can do, sir?” piped the obsequious agent.