“Good work!” said Sprague, speaking for the first time since the departure from Little Butte. “This man Bascom may not be the heavy villain that he looks to be, but he is certainly carrying his nerve with him this afternoon.”
Maxwell was leaning out and shouting to the volunteer in the cab.
“Easy, Bascom!” he yelled; “they’re carrying green!”
Bascom looked back and nodded; and the red-headed fireman strolled on ahead to take his stand at the upper switch.
“Anything significant about the St. Patrick’s Day color?” queried Sprague; and Maxwell said there was.
“It means another section following,” he explained; and then: “Here it comes!” And as he said it, another freight came into view, plunging around the curves toward the siding.
Unhappily for the speed-making purpose, this train, too, was carrying green, and Maxwell swore impatiently to the universe in general. “Three sections to this; and Eighteen’s pretty sure to have two or more. It’s three fifty-five, right now, and we’ve got thirty miles to go!”
Benson laughed.
“Stribling will wait until the last minute for you, never fear. With two hours we could mighty near get out and walk it.”
“I reckon we’re going to get a chance to walk a piece of the way,” said Starbuck in his slow drawl. “That maverick choo-choo wrangler up ahead will have us in the ditch before he hits the Nophi grades, if he keeps up his lick.”