“Nothing short of a big landslip is allowed to hold that fast freight up,” Gordon replied. “It’s up to every divisional superintendent between here and Winnipeg to rush her along as fast as possible. Half the cars are billed through to the Empress liner that goes out to-morrow.”
In the meanwhile the men and oxen had conveyed the big log up the slope, and, while Nasmyth drove the beasts back along the skidded track, it swung out over the chasm at the end of a rope. Men leaning out from fragile stages clutched at and guided it, and when one of them shouted, Nasmyth cast the chain to which the rope was fastened loose from his oxen. Then little lithe figures crawled out along the beams of the trestle, and there was a ringing of hammers. Gordon, who gazed up the track, swung his arm up in warning.
“You’ve got to hump yourselves, boys,” he admonished.
The faint hoot of a whistle came ringing across the pines, and a little puff of white smoke broke out far up the track from among their sombre masses. It grew rapidly larger, and the clang of the hammers quickened, while Wisbech watched the white trail that swept along 132 the steep hillside until there was a sudden shouting. Then he turned and saw his nephew running across the bridge.
“Somebody has forgotten a bolt or a big spike,” said Gordon.
Wisbech felt inclined to hold his breath as he watched Nasmyth climb down the face of the trestle, but in another minute or two he was clambering up again with several other men behind him. There was another hoot of the whistle, and, as Wisbech glanced up the track, a great locomotive broke out from among the pines. It was veiled in whirling dust and flying fragments of ballast, and smoke that was grey instead of white, for the track led down-grade, and the engineer had throttled the steam. The engine was a huge one, built for mountain hauling, and the freight cars that lurched out of the forest behind it were huger still. Wisbech could see them rock, and the roar which they made and which the pines flung back grew deafening. Most of the cars had been coupled up in the yards at Montreal, and were covered thick with the dust that had whirled about them along two thousand four hundred miles of track, and they were still speeding on through the forests of the West, as they had done through those of far-off Ontario.
It seemed to Wisbech as he gazed at the cars that they ran pigmy freight trains in the land he came from, and he was conscious of something that had a curious stirring effect on him in the clang and clatter of that giant rolling stock, as the engineer hurled his great train furiously down-grade. It was man’s defiance of the wilderness, a symbol of his domination over all the great material forces of the world. The engineer, who glanced out once from his dust-swept cab, held them bound and subject in the hollow of the grimy hand he clenched upon the throttle. With a deafening roar, the great train leapt across the trestle, which seemed to rock and reel under it, 133 and plunged once more into the forest. A whistle sounded––a greeting to the men upon the bridge––and then the uproar died away in a long diminuendo among the sombre pines.
It was in most respects a fortuitous moment for Wisbech’s nephew to meet him, and the older man smiled as Nasmyth strode along the track to grasp his outstretched hand.
“I’m glad to see you, Derrick,” said Wisbech, who drew back a pace and looked at his nephew critically.
“You have changed since I last shook hands with you in London, my lad,” he continued. “You didn’t wear blue duck, and you hadn’t hands of that kind then.”