Ben, mumbling a reply, turned again to the window. If possible the storm was worse.
I don’t exactly remember how it happened; I must have dozed off about then, being pretty tuckered out. Anyhow, the first thing I knew Ben was shaking the life out of me. I’ll never forget the expression of his face as I opened my eyes.
His eyes were all red, his hands were working, his jaw set. “Wake up, Jim,” he hissed. “I heard it, too.
“No,” he went on as I instinctively looked toward the window. “Not there; over the wire. Listen!”
I listened, but for a long time nothing broke the vibrating stillness of the tower. And I got to thinking it was another case of nerves. Then, Father above us! may I never again hear such a sound!
Our instrument started to whisper. You laugh, do you? But if you’d been there you wouldn’t have laughed. We went over to the table on tiptoe, hardly daring to breathe. The little steel bar trembled; moved down; snapped back, barely closing the contact.
It was like a dying man framing words he couldn’t utter. I followed in my mind the course of the single, drumming wire over the trestles, through the ravines, under the mountains. What manner of thing was pressing the key at the other end?
Ben dropped forward with an oath and pillowed his elbows on the table as if his nearness might aid him. “Listen!” he begged. “Oh, Jim, listen!”
Presently the instrument quivered again, but this time the impulse was stronger. Horribly flaccid, monotonously regular, like the labored effort of an amateur, came the message which shall forever sear my memory with unspeakable horror.
“God—in—heaven—help me. I—can’t—stand—this. They—chained—cross—ties—to—the—rails. They—will—ditch—the —Limited. I’m—done—for. Hell—is—nearer—now. Help. Dear—God—help—me—”