“Now what?” asked Ralph, as Dooley came along with another clip of papers in his hand.
So much had been going on during the last few minutes that he had quite forgotten his own schedule. The excited Dooley was about to pass him up his list for the next freight when a tall figure came striding across the tracks from the vicinity of the wreck.
“Cheese it!” gasped the fireman. “Here comes the Great-I-Am.”
Mr. Barton Hopkins showed in his face about as much expression as Ralph had ever seen him display. And that expression was one of anger.
“What is going on here, Yardmaster?” he demanded harshly. “Are you ready with your report on that accident yonder?”
“I don’t know much about it,” said the boss doubtfully. “I didn’t see it. Mebbe Mr. Fairbanks, here——”
This was shifting the responsibility in good truth. At another time Ralph might have been angry at Dooley. But he knew that the old man was much perturbed. Mr. Hopkins turned his scowling visage on the young train dispatcher.
“What is Mr. Fairbanks doing on that switch engine?” asked the supervisor. “I understand that he was at fault in this accident. He kicked the pig-iron cars too far over the switch.”
“Look here, Mr. Hopkins!” exclaimed Ralph, leaning from the window of the little cabin in sudden heat. “Who told you any such thing as that?”
“I am so informed. My informant will doubtless appear at the proper time—when the case is thrashed out in my office.”