And while Regan swore and fumed, Carleton’s face set grim and hard—and he waited for Dahleen.
It was a week before the fireman faced Carleton across the super’s desk, but when that time came Carle-ton opened on him straight from the shoulder, not even a word of sympathy, not so much as “glad to see you’re out again,” just straight to the point, hard and quick.
“Dahleen,” he snapped, “I want to know what happened in the cab that night, and I want a straight story. No other kind of talking will do you any good.”
Dahleen’s face, white with the pallor of his illness, flushed suddenly red.
“You’re jumping a man pretty hard, aren’t you, Mr. Carleton?” he said resentfully.
“Maybe I’ve reason to,” replied Carleton. “Well, I’m waiting for that story.”
“There is no story that I know of,” said Dahleen evenly. “After we passed switch-back number one we lost control of the train—the ‘air’ wouldn’t work.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“You don’t seem to,” retorted Dahleen, with a set jaw.
“What did you do to stop her?”