“Oh, I’m all right,” Allan assured him, though he was conscious that both head and shoulder were aching numbly. “Reddy’s been dogging me like a shadow. I’ll be ready to go back before long. You’ve heard the news?”
“No. What?”
“The strike’s off. I’m just going to wire the news to Mr. Schofield. Then I’ll be ready to go home. I must be up early in the morning.”
“We’ll wait fer you,” said Jack, and he and Reddy sat down on the bottom step of the steep flight which led to the dispatchers’ office, while Allan hurried up the stairs.
It took but a moment to get Mr. Schofield on the line. He had been sent the first news of the disaster, and was anxious to know how serious it was. Allan’s first words reassured him.
“Nobody hurt,” Allan flashed, “and not over six cars destroyed, though some damage to others. Fire about out. Freight-house badly wrecked. Bassett set fire to cars and was burned to death. We also have fellow who set off bomb. Just saw Simpson, and arranged to have strike called off at noon to-day. No conditions. Admits that strike was mistake and says Bassett was fired from brotherhood last night. Willing to do most anything to square himself. And I guess that’s all till I see you.”
There was an instant’s pause before Mr. Schofield answered.
“West,” he began, “this is the greatest night’s work you ever did. Are you able to be up?”
“I’m aching some,” Allan answered, “but I’m going home to bed now. Everything is well in hand. I guess there’s no further danger of trouble.”
“Wait a minute,” came the answer.