Ben went back at him, calm as a summer’s day. “Hold on, old man; take some whisky. It’s your nerves. Get a grip on yourself.”
“All right,” answered Donaldson, his wire-talk becoming calmer. “Yes, I’ll take the whisky. Let me know about 77.”
That was all for a while, but Ben eyed me through the fumes of his pipe. “I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Not a bit. Never knew Donaldson to wildcat before. Wonder if there is anything wrong?”
I didn’t say what was on my mind, for the shriek of the storm interrupted. So we just sat still and looked at each other and wondered what it would be like if either of us weren’t there.
Somehow I couldn’t get rid of the picture of Hastings station—a little frame building backed up against a cliff, with a siding cutting in behind it and the banked curve of the main line stretching away before it. A few farmers used the station, but a water-tank was its real excuse for existence.
I could see how the snow had half-buried it, and how Donaldson, veteran that he was, might hear strange sounds in the gale. I could see a great many things right then, but the sight wasn’t pleasant.
Snow, snow and more snow, and icy rails and low, hurrying clouds you felt were brushing against the tower. “Listen!” I snapped.
Ben jumped to his feet. “This won’t do. Here, you quit listening or you’ll be as bad as Donaldson.” Then he came over to me. “I guess it’s just as well there’re two of us,” he said very quietly. “Try the junction for a report on 77.”
I took the key with a sense of awe—only a couple of slim wires between us and the world, and a thousand chances for the storm to tear ’em down. But if we felt it, what about Donaldson? What about Donaldson, anyway?
The junction answered after a bit, though there was no life in the sending. “McFlin,” nodded Ben. “I know his style. Ask him whether the orders for 77 stand.”