“But—”
“I have figured it all out. Adams, the station man at Plympton, has a family. You are going to turn over a leaf, I have decided to take all the blame for the collision on the siding. I shall see the master mechanic within an hour and settle everything. I am going to resign my position with the Great Northern road.”
The fireman’s jaws dropped at this amazing 89 declaration of the young railroader. It seemed as if for a moment he was fairly petrified at the unexpected disclosure of the noble self-sacrifice involved. He did not have to explain what those two sheets of green mica signified—Ralph knew too well. Inspired by jealousy, Lemuel Fogg had slipped them over the white signal lights of No. 999 as the locomotive approached Plympton, getting the siding semaphore, and removing them before the smash-up had come about.
“Never!” shouted Fogg suddenly. “Let me tell you, Fairbanks—”
Before the speaker could finish the sentence Ralph seized his arm with the startling words:
“Mr. Fogg, look—fire!”
Facing about, Lemuel Fogg uttered a frightful cry as he discerned what had just attracted the notice of the young engineer. The Fogg house was in flames.
When Ralph had first noticed the fiercely-burning heap of rubbish on the Fogg premises, he had observed that it was dangerously near to the house. It had ignited the dry light timber of the dwelling, the whole rear part of which was now a mass of smoke and flames.
“My wife—my helpless wife and the little child!” burst from the lips of the frantic fireman in a shrill, ringing scream. 90
Ralph joined him as he ran down the alley on a mad run. The great sweat stood out on the bloodless face of the agonized husband and father in knobs, his eyes wore a frenzied expression of suspense and alarm.