“I was standing on the track looking down, for I couldn’t leave the office, when a young fellow with light hair limped up to me and asked me what that smoke was over there.
“‘That’s what’s left of the Washington Flier,’ I said, ‘and I guess there’s souls going up in that smoke.’
“‘Do you mean the first section?’ he said, getting kind of greenish-yellow.
“‘That’s what I mean,’ I said; ‘split to kindling wood because Rafferty, on the second section, didn’t want to be late.’
“He put his hand out in front of him, and the satchel fell with a bang.
“‘My God!’ he said, and dropped right on the track in a heap.
“I got him into the station and he came around, but he kept on groaning something awful. He’d sprained his ankle, and when he got a little better I drove him over in Carter’s milk wagon to the Carter place, and I reckon he stayed there a spell.”
“That’s all, is it?” I asked.
“That’s all—or, no, there’s something else. About noon that day one of the Carter twins came down with a note from him asking me to send a long-distance message to some one in Washington.”
“To whom?” I asked eagerly.