“This is what I call pretty bad railroad management,” he grumbled, loud enough to be heard by the Kingstonians. “This line should be kept clear when it’s necessary to get army supplies quickly from place to place. What are fifty freight trains compared to powder for the troops?”
The minutes passed slowly; it seemed as if that second freight train would never come. At last a dull, rumbling sound on the track gave warning of the approach of the second section. In a few moments the heavily-laden cars, drawn by a large engine, had glided by “The General,” down the main track. The men in the cab gave unconscious sighs of relief. Now they could move onward. But what was it that the sharp eyes of George detected? Yes, there could be no mistake. At the end of the second freight train was another red flag.
“Look!” he whispered. Andrews saw the flag, and turned white.
“How many more trains are we to wait for?” he said.
After regaining his composure he left the engine, to seek the conductor of the new train. He was back again in five minutes.
“Well?” asked George.
“I find from the conductor that there’s still another section behind him,” explained Andrews. “The Confederate commander at Chattanooga fears the approach of General Mitchell and has ordered all the rolling stock of the railroad to be sent south to Atlanta. The new train should be here in ten minutes.”
In the meantime the people around the station had all heard of the danger which threatened Chattanooga from the Union army. The train-dispatcher came running over to the engine, and doffed his cap to Andrews.
“It ain’t none of my business,” he said, with supreme indifference to any rules of grammar, “but they say Mitchell is almost at Chattanooga—and you’ll never get through to Corinth.”
Andrews assumed an air of contemptuous superiority.