It was a straight way for several rods. He knew the engineer would soon see him. Yet he almost held his breath until he heard the shriek of the locomotive whistle as it called for “brakes” and knew that the driver had set the compressed air as he called the brakemen to their unexpected duty.
The high front of the big machine plowed toward him, looking as though it could not be stopped at all! Ralph stepped out from between the rails when the pilot was almost upon him. He saw the fireman hanging out of the window on his side of the cabin, staring earnestly ahead. The runabout seemed doomed. And the two occupants of the car had not attempted to get out!
“Great heavens, if she hits it!” murmured the young train dispatcher.
He started on a staggering run back to the crossing. He was aware that a crowd was gathering, seemingly by magic, on both sides of the crossing. From the south appeared a tall figure that burst through the narrow opening at the end of the gate and started for the endangered automobile.
Fire flew from the brakeshoes of the train and the grind and hiss of the iron threatened flat tires on more than one wheel. Ralph, the breath sobbing in his throat, continued to stumble on over the cinder path.
The tall figure he knew was that of Mr. Barton Hopkins. The supervisor had chanced to come along just in season to see the danger of his wife and daughter.
But Ralph knew well enough that the man—no more than Ralph himself—could do nothing to aid the victims of this threatened disaster.
CHAPTER X
THE NIGHT OF THE STRIKE
The locomotive stopped—and there was no crash such as Ralph had expected. He was only a few yards behind the high step of the great machine down which the fireman swung himself.
“What’s the matter with those boobs?” demanded the latter. “Blocking the road like this—huh! Wait till the super gets wise to it. He’s got just what it costs to stop a train figgered out into cents and mills.”