“Yis, sorr; but Misther Bolton’s doing that same now. They do be saying his wife’s on the train, and he’s that near crazy.”
Maxwell turned to his guest.
“You see how it is with us poor railroad devils, Calvin. It’s a bad case of ‘have to,’ and I know you’ll excuse me. Just the same, it’s an infernal outrage—when we haven’t been able to get together for a dog’s age.”
The chemistry sharp, as he had called himself, was standing up and stretching his arms over his head like a pole-vaulter hardening his muscles for the jump.
“I’ll trot over to your shop with you, Dick, if you don’t object,” he said good-naturedly. “I want to see what happens when you get a hurry call like this.”
In the despatcher’s office Connolly was hammering at his key like a madman, with the sweat running down his full-moon face and the hand which was not in use shaking as if the left half of him had been ague-smitten. Trainmen were coming and going, and the alarm whistle at the shops was bellowing the wreck call at ten-second intervals. Everybody made way for Maxwell when he pushed through the counter gate with his big guest at his heels.
“Any more news, Dan?”
The despatcher flicked his closing switch, and immediately the ague spread to the hand which was no longer steadied on the key.
“Nothing. I’ve been clearing, and everything is getting out of the way. I’ve tried twice to get Angels, but I can’t raise anybody. I guess Garner, the operator, has set his signals at block and gone to gather up what help he can find.”
Just then more men came crowding in from the corridor, and one of them, a small man with hot eyes and a harsh voice, barked at Connolly.