“Orders for the wreck-wagons, Dan; we’re ready to go.”
Out of the throng behind the counter barrier Bolton, yellow-faced and ghastly, fought his way to the gate and besought the superintendent.
“Let me go, too, Mr. Maxwell!” he panted. “My God! I’ve got to go!”
“Of course, you shall go, Barry,” said the superintendent with quick kindliness, remembering what the watchman had said about Bolton’s wife being on the ditched train. “Dan, send the caller after Catherton and let him take Bolton’s wire.” Then he turned to his guest, who had been standing aside and looking on with a level-eyed gaze that lost no detail. “It’s hello and good-by for us, Sprague, old man; that is, unless you’d care to go along?”
The guest decided instantly. “I was just about to ask you if you couldn’t count me in,” he returned; and together they followed the rough-tongued little conductor in a hurried dash for the platform.
The wrecking-train had been backed down to the station spur to take on the hospital car, and it was standing ready for the eastward flight; two flat-cars loaded with blocking and tackle, a desert tank-car filled with water, two work-train boxes crowded to the doors with men, and, next to the engine, which was one of the big “Pacific types” used on the fast mail runs, a heavy steam crane powerful enough to lift a locomotive and swing it clear at a single hitch.
“Who’s pulling us, Blacklock?” Maxwell asked, overtaking the little man with the hot eyes.
“Young Cargill.”
Maxwell turned to Sprague.
“I’m going on the engine, Calvin. There’s room for you if you care to try it. If you don’t, I’ll turn you over to Dawson, our master mechanic, and he’ll make you at home in the doctors’ car.”