“What! Down in the yards! Do you mean to say you brought her in?”
“Of course I brought her in,” said Lister. “They ain’t another engineer on th’ road could ’a’ done it, but I did it, an’ I want to tell you, Mr. Schofield—”
A succession of sharp blasts from the whistle of the yard-engine interrupted him.
“What’s that?” cried the train-master, and threw up the window, for the blasts meant that an accident of some sort had happened. The other men in the office rushed to the windows, too,—they saw the yardmen running madly about and gesticulating wildly,—and away up the yards they saw the 226 rattling over the switches at full speed, running wild!
With a single bound the train-master was at the door of the despatcher’s office.
“Where’s Number Four?” he demanded. Number Four was the fastest through passenger-train on the road—the east-bound flier, to which all other trains gave precedence.
The despatcher in charge of the west end of the road looked up from his desk.
“Number Four passed Anderson three minutes ago, sir,” he said. “She’s on time—she’s due here in eight minutes.”
The train-master’s face grew suddenly livid; a cold sweat burst out across his forehead.
“Good Lord!” he murmured, half to himself. “A wreck—no power on earth can help it!”