“Yes—What’s up?” The train was swirling through the dark and they held to the guard-rail as they faced each other.
In his cab, at the other end of the train, the old Scotchman, his body braced to the swing of the wheels, leaned out, looking back with tense eyes.
“Can ye see her, Jim?”
The fireman leaned beside him, for a moment, piercing the dark with swift, keen glance, “Nothing there,” he said.
The train, on the down grade by the river, ran with swift ease through the night.... No sight—no sound.... Only the great river to the left slipping—dark and still, and the stars overhead.
But the two men leaned back, scenting the dark with swift gaze.
“Nothing there,” said the fireman, peering out, “You must ’a’—”
He paused—with quick turn.
A long, low whistle broke the night, echoing against the distant hills.
The eyes of the two men met. Tomlinson’s hand raised itself with startled thrust. The answering shriek tore the night.... Once—twice—in hoarse demand....