Jeff stamped his way up the steps of the hack, shoved open the door and stepped inside. Gathered around a table in the yellow glare of a big electric light, that hurt Jeff’s eyes momentarily, were the wreckers, big broad-chested, broad-shouldered, experienced railroad men who seemed to Jeff the impersonation of courage, resourcefulness and reliability. They were the men who were responsible for keeping the line open so that trains could run uninterruptedly no matter how grave the catastrophe or how serious the damages. And they were good-natured and hearty men, as was evident from the greeting that the boss of them all, big Tim Crowley, gave him, when he introduced himself and began to ask questions about the three-legged calf.
But Jeff had scarcely got well started on his catechizing when the door of the caboose was flung open and banged closed again and a man from the dispatcher’s office, still in his shirt sleeves despite the cold and with his green eye shade on his forehead, burst in upon them. In his hand he held a piece of flimsy yellow paper, a dispatcher’s telegraph blank, on which was typed a brief but evidently important message.
“Tim, No. 89, fast freight out of New City is piled up at Granville cross-over. Ten cars off the track and some of them smashed to pieces. Both tracks are blocked. Tracy, the conductor, says it’s a bad mess. Engine 1107 with Ed Dixon is backing down to pick you up. Cold night for a wreck, ain’t it? Wish you luck,” and passing the yellow slip to Tim he slammed his way out and raced back to the dispatcher’s office.
For a moment Jeff did not realize what was happening. But as he heard the hoarse blasts of an engine not far off and felt the jarring clank as it backed against the wrecking train and coupled up he understood it all.
“You best beat it if you don’t want to take a lively ride,” said Tim with a smile, as the men put their cards away and got up from the table.
“Beat it! What? With a wreck on the line and me on board the wrecking train ready to roll. Not on your life; that is, of course, if you will let me go along,” said Jeff, looking eagerly at Tim.
“As a reporter there ain’t no rules against it, I guess,” said Tim, sliding into his heavy coat. “Go along if you want to. Tumble out, men.”
It took a remarkably short time for the crew, swarming over the train of flat cars, to get everything ready for the run, and by the time the engine was coupled on everything was “ship shape,” to quote the wrecking boss, and the men were back in the hack.