“Not yet!” he whispered in Tarbell’s ear; and then Davis snapped his switch and spoke.
“It’s no use,” he said, and his harsh tone was only a thin mask for the break in his voice. “It’s the real thing this time. First Eighteen was ready to pull out of Corona when the Limited went by. Corringer left his wire and chased the freight, hoping to get its engine to cut loose and run after the passenger. He couldn’t catch it.”
A low murmur ran through the crowd packed against the counter railing and somebody whispered, “It’s got the boss; his wife and babies are on that train. Look at him!”
Maxwell had gripped the back of a chair and he was staring hot-eyed at the despatcher.
“Do something, Davis,” he pleaded. “Don’t sit there and let those trains come together! For Christ’s sake, think of something!”
The chief despatcher ducked his head as if he were dodging a blow and swallowed hard.
“There isn’t anything to do, Mr. Maxwell—you know there isn’t anything,” he began in low tones. “If there was——”
It was Connolly who made the break. Twisting away from Tarbell’s grip on his arm he flung himself upon Davis.
“Get out o’ that chair and let me have the key,” he wheezed; and when Davis did not move quickly enough he pounced upon the key standing. Davis got up and quietly slid the chair under the night man who sank heavily into it without missing a letter in the call he was insistently clicking out, over and over again in endless repetition.
“What is it?” whispered the newspaper man, who was standing aside with Tarbell and Sprague; and Tarbell answered: