As Fogg went outside with oil can and waste roll, Mervin Clark came into the cab.
“Glad to get back where it’s home like,” he sang out in his chirp, brisk way. “Say, Engineer Fairbanks, that monument of brass buttons and gold cap braid is the limit. Discipline? why, he works on springs and you have to touch a button to make him act. I had to chum with the brakeman to find out what’s up.”
“Something is up, then?” inquired Ralph a trifle uneasily.
“Oh, quite. The conductor has been writing a ten-page report on the collision. It’s funny, but the station man at Plympton––”
“New man, isn’t he?” inquired Ralph.
“Just transferred to Plympton yesterday mornin’,” explained Clark. “Well, he swears that your 30 front signals were special at the curves and flashed green just as you neared the semaphore.”
“Absurd!” exclaimed Ralph.
“That’s what the conductor says, too,” said Clark. “He told the station agent so. They nearly had a fight. ‘Color blind!’ he told the station agent and challenged him to find green lights on No. 999 if he could. The station man was awfully rattled and worried. He says he knew a special was on the list, but being new to this part of the road he acted on Rule 23 when he saw the green lights. He sticks to that, says that he will positively swear to it. He says he knows some one will be slated, but it won’t be him.”
“What does the conductor say?” inquired Ralph.
“He says Rule 23 doesn’t apply, as the white lights prove. If there was any trickery or any mistake, then it’s up to the fireman, not to the engineer.”