"I say, Ted, what train was Larry coming on?" counterquestioned Dick.
"Chicago Overland. Why?"
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am sure. He wired Tony. What in thunder are you driving at?
Get it out for Pete's sake?"
"The Chicago Overland smashed into a freight somewhere near Pittsburgh this morning. There were hundreds of people killed. Oh, Lord, Ted! I didn't mean to break it to you like that." Dick was aghast at his own clumsiness as Ted leaned against the brick wall of the college building, his face white as chalk. "I wasn't thinking—guess I wasn't thinking about much of anything except Tony," he added.
Ted groaned.
"Don't wonder," he muttered. "Let's not let her get wind of it till we have to. Are you sure there—there isn't any mistake?" Ted put up his hand to brush back a refractory lock of hair and found his forehead wet with cold perspiration. "There's got to be a mistake. Larry—I won't believe it, so there!"
"You don't have to believe it till you know. Even if he was on the train it doesn't mean he is hurt." Dick would not name the harsher possibility to Larry Holiday's brother.
"Of course, it doesn't," snapped Ted. "I say, Dick, is it in the papers yet?"
"No, it will be in an hour though, as soon as the evening editions get out."