“Can’t you send someone over on foot, with a flag, or torpedoes?”
“There are no torpedoes at the bridge house, and there’s not time to send them down. As to flagging—look at the mist over the whole valley bottom,” said the despatcher pointing. “Except directly opposite, where the wind between the hills breaks it up at times, the engineer couldn’t see three feet ahead of him.”
The superintendent gripped his hands convulsively. Suddenly he turned to Alex. “Ward, can’t you suggest something?” he appealed. “You have always shown resource in emergencies.”
“I have been trying to think of something, sir. But, as the chief says, even if we could get a man across the bridge, what could he do? I was down by the river yesterday morning, and the haze was like a blind wall.”
“Couldn’t a fire be built on the tracks?”
“Not quickly enough, sir. Everything is soaking wet.”
The superintendent strode up and down helplessly. “And of course it had to happen after the Riverside Park station had closed for the season,” he said bitterly. “If we had had an operator there we—”
The interruption was a cry from Alex. “I’ve something! Oil!”
He dashed for the tower wire.
“What? What’s that?” cried the superintendent, running after.