A vision danced before his eyes—a vision of shattered cars, of mangled men and women. He knew where the collision must occur; he knew that the flier would be coming down that heavy grade at full speed—and toward the flier thundered that wild engine—with no guiding hand upon the throttle—with nothing to hold her back from her mad errand of destruction!
It had happened in this wise. A moment after Engineer Lister jumped to the ground, and while his fireman, Ellis Root, was still looking after him with a grin of relief, for the trip had been a hot one for him in more ways than one, a yardman came along and uncoupled the engine from the train. The fireman began to kick off his overalls, when he became suddenly conscious that the engine was moving. The leaky throttle did not shut off the steam completely from the cylinders, and, released from the weight of the heavy train which had held her back, the engine started slowly forward.
The fireman, whose knowledge of the engine was as yet of the most primitive description, sprang to the other side of the cab and pushed the lever forward a notch or two. The engine’s speed increased.
“I can’t stop her,” he said, feverishly, half to himself. “I can’t stop her,” and he pulled the lever back.
The engine sprang back in answer and bumped heavily into the train behind her.
“Hi, there, you ijit!” yelled the yardman, who was under the first car inspecting the air-hose. “What you mean? D’ y’ want t’ kill a feller? Let that ingine alone!”
Ellis, with the perspiration trickling down his face, threw the lever forward again, and then, as the engine bounded forward in answer, he lost his head entirely and leaped off, with a wild yell of dismay.
In a moment the 226 rattled over the switches westward out of the yards, and shot out upon the main track, gathering speed with every revolution!
Welsh’s gang had worked its way eastward along the section as far as the mill switch, when the foreman took out his watch and glanced at it.