The conductor hoisted himself to his feet and Bob followed him in a dash for the vestibule.
“That blamed engineer almost shook us to pieces,” groaned the conductor as he threw open the top half of the vestibule door and peered out.
Bob, looking over his shoulder, could see a red glare that penetrated even the brilliance of the locomotive’s headlight.
“Someone’s swinging a fuse against us,” said the conductor, buttoning up his slicker. “I’m going ahead.”
Bob ran back into the Pullman and got his own coat. Tully, who was awake now, wanted to know what it was all about.
“An emergency stop of some kind,” said Bob. “I’ll be back soon.”
By the time he was back in the vestibule the Limited was grinding to a stop and Bob swung down behind the conductor, the two running ahead alongside the train as rapidly as they could in the darkness.
The Southern had been flagged at a lonely way station where it seldom if ever made a stop, and the engineer, who was leaning from his cab, bawled lustily at them.
“Find out what that hick agent means by flagging us down,” he shouted. “We’ve got to get rolling again. We’re 23 minutes late.”
The agent, the red fuse still in his hands, came toward them and Bob caught a glimpse of a telegram in one hand.