“BX, BX—AW (his private sign)! BX, BX, AW!”
The station lights streamed on.
“Qk! Qk! BX, BX!” called Alex.
His right hand tired, and he changed to the left. “Surely they should be on the lookout for me, and see it,” he told himself. “For when I go fishing I am always home at—”
One of the station lights disappeared. Breathlessly Alex repeated his call, and waited. Was it merely some one pulling down a blind, or—
The light appeared again, then disappeared, several times in quick succession, and Alex uttered a joyful “Hurrah!” and turning his whole attention to the lamp, that the signals might be perfect, began flashing across the night his thrilling message of warning:
“THE FOREIGN TRACK HANDS—”
From a short distance down the spur came a shout. Startled, Alex hesitated. Again came a cry, then the sound of swiftly running feet.
He had been discovered! In a panic Alex turned and began to scramble down the ladder. But sharply he pulled up. No! That would be playing the coward! He must complete the message! And bravely choking down his terror, he climbed back onto the platform, and while the running feet and threatening cries came nearer every moment, continued his message:
“HANDS ARE—”