“They cooked the jack-rabbit for supper–––”
Scott flung his book violently across the room. “It tasted good,” continued Dancing exasperatingly. “But the night was awfully cold, so they built a big camp-fire near the curve. The freight engineer saw the fire and thought it was a locomotive head-light. Then he remembered he had run past his meeting point. He stopped his train to find out what the fire was. When he told Bill what had happened they grabbed up the burning logs, carried them down the track, and built a signal fire for No. 2. And it came along inside five minutes–––”
“And there they are!” concluded Bucks, wiping the dampness from his forehead.
The receiver continued to click. “Bill thought I would be worried and he cut in on the line right away to tell me what had happened.”
“Now give your orders to No. 2 to back up to Castle Springs and let the rail train get by. Recall your relief train,” added Scott. “And bring that freight engineer in here in the morning and let Stanley talk to him for just about five minutes.” The key rattled for a moment. Scott, going to the farthest corner of the room, picked up “The Last of the Mohicans.” “Bucks,” he murmured insinuatingly, as he sat down to look into the book again, “I want to ask you now, once for all, whether this is a true story?”
“Bob, put that book where it belongs and stop talking about it.”
Scott hitched one shoulder a bit and returned to the fire, but he was not silenced.
“That reminds me, Bucks,” he resumed after a pause, “there is another friend of yours here at 316 the door, waiting to congratulate you. Shall I let him in?”
“I don’t want any congratulations, Bob.”