“I guess I’m in for all of it,” was the even-toned reply, and they ran forward to climb to the cab of the big mail flyer.
“My friend, Mr. Sprague, Cargill,” snapped Maxwell, introducing the stranger to the handsome young fellow in overalls and jumper perched upon the high right-hand seat, and Cargill pulled off his glove to shake hands.
“You’ll find the Ten-sixteen a pretty hard rider,” he began; but Maxwell cut him short.
“You have a clear track, and Blacklock’s got your orders. Open her up and see what you can do. It’s a plain case of ‘get there’ to-night, Billy. The minutes may mean just so many lives saved or lost.”
“’Right!” yelled the fireman, leaning from the gangway to get Blacklock’s signal; and at the word the engineer’s hand shot to the lever, the great engine shook itself free, and the rescue race was begun.
For the first few miles of the race the track was measurably straight. Maxwell stood on the raised step at Sprague’s elbow, steadying himself with a grip on the sill of the opened side window. When he saw that the ex-fullback was making hard work of it he shouted in the big man’s ear.
“Loosen up a bit and take the roll with her,” he advised, and Sprague nodded and tried it.
“That’s much better,” he called back. “What are we making now?”
“Forty, or a little more. She’s good for sixty, and so is Cargill, but the tangents are too short to let us hit the limit.”
“And the wreck—how far away is it?”