He shook himself as if trying to get rid of something clinging. “Oh, Donaldson is getting old,” he muttered. “It’s lonely down there, and his fire’s out. That’s what I make of it.
“When the wind howls, and you’re on a night shift in a God-forsaken spot like Hastings, you’re mighty apt to hear and see a little more ’an you’ve any business to.”
The next word that came flashing over the wire left no doubt in our minds. Either Donaldson was clean crazy or—well, he must be crazy!
“Ever see a face half black and half white?” stuttered our instrument. “I had a shot at it. It’s still walking.”
Ben waited an instant then sent “J-J,” Donaldson’s call, steady for three minutes. But he might as well have opened the window and yelled out into the storm. The wire was either dead or Hastings wouldn’t answer.
Presently McFlin at the junction got busy. “Just O. K.’d 77,” he said. “Devilish night. The Limited looked like a hunk of the mountain on wheels. Bet the snow on the car-roofs gets scraped off on the top of the tunnels. Happy dreams.”
But we weren’t to indulge in any happy dreams for some time to come. Hardly had McFlin shut up when “N-H, N-H, N-H” called Ben back. “Lord,” he groaned, “hear that style? It’s Donaldson, but what’s happened to him? I hate to listen to it.”
Dull, lifeless, flat, came the dots and dashes from Hastings. “No use,” clicked Donaldson. “This hide-and-seek is beyond me. Its face is half black and half white, and bullets don’t worry it. I’m a gone duck. Never mind me. Anyhow, hell is warm and not as lonesome as this. I’m freezing, and that’s no ghost story.”
“For God’s sake,” Ben’s reply flew forth, “can that stuff. Pull yourself together, old man. Forget the face or whatever it is; 77’s on time. Hold hard.”
“Sure,” agreed Donaldson wearily, “I’ll handle the Limited. How’s the storm up there?”