“The tender.”
“Yes,” said Ralph, “cut it loose,” and a minute later the railroad president uttered a sudden cry as the tender shot into the distance, uncoupled. Then he understood, and smiled excitedly. And then, as Fogg reached under his seat, pulled out a great bundle of waste and two oil cans, and flung them into the furnace, he realized the desperate straits at which they had arrived and their forlorn plight.
Conserving every ounce of steam, all of his nerves on edge, the young engineer drove No. 999 forward like some trained steed. As they rounded a hill just outside of Shelby Junction, they could see the Night Express steaming down its tracks, one mile away.
“We’ve made it!” declared Ralph, as they came within whistling distance of the tower at the interlocking rails where the two lines crossed.
“Say,” yelled Fogg suddenly, “they’ve given the Express the right of way.”
This was true. Out flashed the stop signal for No. 999, and the white gave the “come on” to the Night Express. There was no time to get to the tower and try to influence the towerman to 242 cancel system at the behest of a railroad president.
“You must stop that train!” rang out the tones of the official sharply.
“I’m going to,” replied Fairbanks grimly.
He never eased up on No. 999. Past the tower she slid. Then a glowing let up, and then, disregarding the lowered gates, she crashed straight through them, reducing them to kindling wood.
Squarely across the tracks of the incoming train the giant engine, battered, ice-coated, the semblance of a brave wreck, was halted. There she stood, a barrier to the oncoming Express.