This was the plan: to plant a tie on the track, and derail the four cars. But although everybody worked furiously, heaving the ties over the end of the car, the ties bounded like Indian rubber—seemed scarcely to touch the track before they went hurtling and flying far to one side or the other.
“B’ gorry!” Pat gasped, streaming sweat. And—“If we only can get into Echo City wid time enough for ’em to shunt wan or the other of us into a sidin’——!”
Echo City, at the end of the canyon! There were the sidings. Now the gap narrowed again, the four cars cared nothing for the ties with which they were being bombarded, but the whistle of 119 was changed to the signal “Open switches!”
Would the crews at Echo City understand? Would they have time to work right? Hauling and tugging and dragging, Terry and George had farther and farther to pass the ties back to the outstretched hands of Paddy and the brakeman. It certainly was a mad ride, this—a ride for life, too! Blame those four cars—and blame those two Dutchmen, who ought to have stayed aboard and set their brakes!
“Will we make it, yuh think?” wheezed George, as he labored.
“Close squeeze,” wheezed Terry. “How far, wonder?”
“Dunno. Can’t read mile-posts. Must be near, though.”
Around still another of those dangerous curves—and they roared past a little group of graders, repairing the track. They had just a fleeting glimpse of the staring, startled faces and the red-shirted forms; and with the four cars thundering after they dashed on.
But Echo City was not far. Then, if the station crews failed to work mighty fast, there would be a race clear to end o’ track—and, whew!
“Look! Oh, gee!”