“Tell him the crest of this new flood will likely reach us in half an hour,” he added; “and that by that time, as it is turning colder, there’ll probably be a heavy fog on the river.”
Twenty-five minutes later Jack suddenly called, and announced, “The new flood’s coming! There is a heavy mist, and I can’t see, but I can hear it. Can you see it from up there?”
Alex and the chief despatcher moved to one of the western windows, raised it, and in the first gray light of dawn gazed out across the valley below. Instead of the dark waters of the river, and the yellow embankment of the railroad following it, winding away north was a broad blanket of fog, stretching from shore to shore. But distinctly to their ears came a rumble as of thunder.
“It must be a veritable Niagara,” remarked the chief with some uneasiness. “I never heard a bore come down like that before.”
“Here she comes,” clicked Jack from the tower. They stepped back to his instruments.
“Say!—”
There was a pause, while the chief and Alex exchanged glances of apprehension, then came quickly, “Something has struck one of the western spans of the bridge and carried it clean away—
“No—No, it’s there yet! But it’s all smashed to pieces! Only the upper-structure seems to be holding!”
Sharply the despatcher turned to an operator at one of the other wires. “McLaren, Forty-six hasn’t passed Norfolk?”
“Yes, sir. Five minutes ago.”