Salome turned away. For the first time since breakfast a clear thought came into her brain. She went out to the train-gate.
No, they could not take any one. There were so many wanting to go, and they only took one car. Oh, a friend of the injured? Well, she must go to the division superintendent, or the general passenger agent. There was the “G. P. A.” over there.
Salome walked over to the official designated,—a pleasant gentleman with kind eyes.
“I am Miss Shepard of Shepardtown,” she said; “my chief superintendent is among the injured, and is probably dying. He has no friends, and I must get to him. Can you help me?”
The official took out a little book, wrote her name on a blank pass, and handed it to her.
“Anything we can do for him or for you, Miss Shepard, we shall be glad to do. You needn’t hesitate to ask. Your grandfather was once kind to me, when I was a poor boy.”
The passenger agent hurried away to the engine, giving some last orders, and Salome did not have a chance to thank him.
“You’ll have to hurry, miss,” a brakeman said who was standing near. “The train is going.”
A moment later she was on the way for Jones’s Crossing.
This train had the right of way and a clear track for some distance. They seemed to fly, as they sped out through the suburbs into the country beyond.