“I have it!”
With the sharp words he again grasped the key, and while those about him listened with bated breath he sent like a flash, “Jack, there’s a barrel of oil in the shed at the rear. Knock the head in, spill it, and set a match to it.
“Burn the station!”
The chief and the operators gasped, then with one accord set up a shout and darted back for the windows. The superintendent, told of the message, rushed after.
In absolute silence all fixed their eyes on the spot a mile up the river where lay the little summer depot.
Once more came the long-drawn “Too—oo, too—oo, oo, oo!” for a crossing.
“The next’ll tell,” said the chief tensely—“for the crossing this side of the station, or—”
It came. It was the crossing.
But the next instant from the mist shot up a lurid flare. From the windows rose a cry. Higher leaped the flames. And suddenly across the quiet morning air came a long series of quick sharp toots. Again they came—then the short, sharp note for brakes.