A RUNAWAY TRAIN
“Hurry in, Ward, or the lamp will be out!”
Alex, who had now been night operator at Foothills six months, closed the station door behind him, and laughingly flicked his rain-soaked cap toward the day operator, whom he had just come to relieve.
“Is it raining that hard? You look like a drowned rat for sure,” said Saunders as he reached for his hat and coat. “Why didn’t you stay at home, and ’phone down? I would have been glad to work for you—not.”
“Wait until you are out in it, and you’ll not laugh,” declared Alex, struggling out of his dripping ulster. “It is the worst storm this spring.”
“And wait until you see the fun you are going to have with the wire to-night, and you’ll not indulge in an over-abundance of smiles. I haven’t had a dot from the despatcher since six o’clock. Had to get clearance for Nineteen around by MQ, and now we’ve lost them.”
“There is someone now,” said Alex, as the instruments began clicking.
“It’s somebody west. IC, I think. Yes; Indian Canyon,” said Saunders, pausing as he turned to the door. “What is he after? He certainly can’t make himself heard by X if we can’t.”
“X, X, X,” rapidly repeated the sounder, calling Exeter, the despatching office. “X, X, X! Qk!”
Alex and Saunders looked at one another with a start. Several times the operator at Indian Canyon repeated the call, more urgently, then as hurriedly began calling Imken, the next station east of him.