“Quitting,” lied Ben, and went to the window.
Then followed an hour of silence, with only the shriek of the wind and the thud of snow. I reckon the two of us smoked considerable tobacco during that hour, and we played a few games of checkers, too, but our minds wandered.
When at last we heard the shrill squeal of 77’s whistle above the noise of the blizzard, we felt happy. Just to know there were other people near us—believe me, that was some relief!
Far off up the line we could make out the headlight of the Limited like a blinking, misty moon creeping toward us. Ben glanced at his semaphore levers. Down she bore on us, the din of her drivers muffled by snow.
There was the thunder of moving tons, a blast of cinders against the tower windows, and a snaky line of black as the Pullmans flashed past under their white-caps. We watched her red tail-lights around the curve.
“J-J, J-J, J-J,” clicked Ben, back at the table. And directly Hastings answered in the same lifeless style.
“Limited just passed O. K.,” went on my side partner. “How are you feeling?”
Donaldson’s wire-talk was worse than ever. “Fine,” he stuttered. “Maybe I can hold out. The damn thing’s always near me. It’s cold here. I’ve got my feet on the stove. Say, this stove is a joke. It’s so empty it’s going to cave in pretty soon. Wait a minute, let me try another shot.”
Nothing more. Not another word, though we took turns at the key. And when Ben relighted his pipe I didn’t like the look on his face. “Jim,” he began, “there’s things in this world none of us can understand. I reckon after all that maybe, I misjudged Donaldson; perhaps he’s up against one of ’em.”
“Quit!” I bellowed. “You watch yourself or you’ll be splitting a switch, too. As you said a while back, Donaldson’s nervous and cold. That’s what’s the matter with him; nothing else.”