At the Babel of cries that rent the air the young motorcyclist looked up and his nostrils dilated with sudden purpose. At a glance he took in the situation—the running men, the panic cries, the runaway engine. Then he came plunging through the crowd and grasped the dazed agent by the shoulder.
“Come, wake up,” he cried. “Do something. Telegraph to the next station.”
The man looked up dully. Terror had benumbed his faculties. He was clearly not the man for a sudden emergency.
“No use,” he moaned. “The next station is thirteen miles away. And it’s a single track,” he wailed, “and No. 56 is due in twenty minutes. If she’s on time she’s already left there. They’ll meet head-on—O God!”
“Quick,” the newcomer commanded, as he fairly dragged him into the office. “There’s the key. Get busy. Call up the next station and see if you can stop 56.”
But as he saw the aimless, paralyzed way in which the agent fumbled at the key, he thrust him aside and took his place. He was an expert telegrapher, and his fingers fairly flew as he called up the operator at Corridon.
“Engine running wild,” he called. “Stop 56 and sidetrack the runaway.”
A moment of breathless suspense and the answer came in sharp, staccato clicks that betrayed the agitation of the man at the other end.
“56 just left. Rounding the curve half a mile away. Making up time, too. For heaven’s sake, do something.”
“Do something.” What bitter irony! What could be done? Death was at the throttle of that mad runaway rushing down the line.