They were barely two hundred rods from the point where they would slide out onto the rails of the branch, and Ralph had started to let down on speed, when his helper uttered a vivid shout.
“Fairbanks--something coming!”
Ralph cast his eyes to the other side of the cab. Something, indeed, was coming--coming like a flash, going like a flash. It whizzed even with them, and ahead, like some phantom of the rail. Its course was so swift that the cab lights were a flare, then a disappearing speck.
“We are too late,” said Ralph. “That is the runaway.”
“So?” questioned Roberts, who only half understood the situation.
“We ran here in the hopes of ditching that engine.”
“Did?”
“We’re too late.”
“Are?”
“Roberts,” added the young railroader determinedly, “we’ve got to catch that runaway.”