Already Alex was whirring off a string of letters. “Z, Z, Z, WS!” he called. “Qk! Qk! Z, Z—”
The line opened, and at the quick sharp dots that came Alex could not restrain a cry of triumph. “It works! I’ve got him,” he exclaimed. Then rapidly he sent:
“Has Number 12 passed?”
The line again opened, and over the boy leaned a circle of white, anxious faces. Had the train passed? Had it gone on to destruction? Or—
The instruments clicked. “No! No! He says, no!” cried Alex.
And then, while the crowd about him relieved its pent-up feelings in wild shouts and hurrahs, Alex quickly sent the order to stop the train.
“And now three good cheers for the little operator,” said one of the passengers as Alex closed his key. In confusion Alex drew back in his chair, then suddenly recollecting the others who had taken part in the night’s work, he told the superintendent of the part played by Mr. Moore and his sons, and of the sacrifice of Mrs. Moore’s new wash-boiler.
“And then there was the man on the horse, who told us of the slide in the cut across the river. He was the real one to save the Mail,” said Alex, modestly.
“I see you are as fair as you are ingenious,” said the superintendent, smiling. “We’ll look after them all, you may be sure. By the first express Mrs. Moore shall have two, instead of one, of the finest boilers money can buy. And as for you, my boy, I’ll see that you are given a permanent station within a year, if you wish to take it. We need resourceful operators like you.”