“Here’s a message for you, Mr. Elkins,” said Corcoran, handing Jim a yellow paper, “from Agnew.”
We read it by Corcoran’s lantern, for it was getting dusky for the reading of telegraph operator’s script.
“Water out over bottoms from Hinckley to the Hills,” so went the message. “Flood coming down valley. Snow and drifting wind reported from Elkins Junction and Josephine. Look out for washouts, and culverts and bridges damaged by running ice and water. Pendleton special fully up to running schedule, at Willow Springs.”
“Who’ve you got up there, Schwartz? Oh, is that you, Ole?” said Mr. Elkins. “Good! Boys, to-night our work has got to be done in time, or we might as well go to bed. It’s a case of four aces or a four-flush, and no intermediate stations. Mr. Pendleton’s special will pass the Junction right around nine—not ten minutes either way. Get us there before that. If you can do it safely, all right; but get us there. And remember that the regular rule in railroading is reversed to-night, and we are ready to take any chance rather than miss—any chances, mind!”
“We’re ready and waiting, Mr. Elkins,” said Schwartz, “but you’ll have to get on, you know. Looks like there was time enough if we keep the wheels turning, but this snow and flood business may cut some figure. Any chances, I believe you said, sir. All right! Ready when you are, Jack.”
“All aboard!” sang out Corcoran, and with a commonplace ding-dong of the bell, and an every-day hiss of steam, which seemed, somehow, out of keeping with the fearful and unprecedented exigency now upon us, we moved out through the yards, jolting over the frogs, out upon the main line; and soon began to feel a cheering acceleration in the recurrent sounds and shocks of our flight, as Schwartz began rolling back the miles under his flying wheels.
We sat in silence on the oil-cloth cushions of the seats which ran along the sides of the caboose. Corcoran, the only person who shared the car with us, seemed to have some psychical consciousness of the peril which weighed down upon us, and moved quietly about the car, or sat in the cupola, as mute as we.
There was no need for speech between my friend and me. Our minds, strenuously awake, found a common conclusion in the very nature of the case. Both doubtless had considered and rejected the idea of telegraphing Pendleton to wait for us at the Junction. No king upon his throne was more absolute than Avery Pendleton, and to ask him to waste a single quarter-hour of his time might give great offense to him whom we desired to find serene and complaisant. Again, any apparent anxiety for haste, any symptom of an attempt to rush his line of defenses, would surely defeat its object. No, we must quietly and casually board his train, and secure the signing of the contract before we reached Chicago, if possible.
“You brought that paper, Al?” said Jim, as if my thoughts had been audible to him.
“Yes,” said I, “it’s here.”