After a little while he passed the switch tower and noted the cheery light up in its little surmounting enclosure. He would have liked to climb up that narrow ladder and make friends with the towerman. That would have been right in his line. But even he was impressed with the necessity of not losing time now. He wondered if anything (he did not know exactly what) had happened in Farrelton since morning. They might possibly have caught the originator of the hot tamale stunt and he might have involved Hervey in a confession. But Hervey had faith in that worthy’s ability not to be caught. It was very dark and lonesome in the woods, but the shiny steel tracks somehow kept him cheery company as he trudged along through the silent night.
Pretty soon he noticed there were four rails beneath him instead of two. Two of these came into the main line in a sweeping curve from the southeast, and Hervey reflected with satisfaction that he had reached the convergence of the Wainboro branch with the main line. Well, he had already hiked about three miles. The rails of the branch line had passed the point of curvature and ran even with those of the main line; that is, the left rail of the main line and the left rail of the branch line ran parallel three or four inches apart. You may see this by glancing at the sketch. A few yards ahead, as you will see, was Red Hill switch.
Hervey was amusing himself by walking these two rails, one foot on either rail, when suddenly the piercing scream of the locomotive caused him to jump aside. The flaring headlight of the northbound train illuminated a little area of woodland as it moved swiftly toward him; it seemed to carry along a patch of glimmering forest. On, on it came, invincible, resistless, utterly heedless of the poor little hiker as it thundered by. What a clang and clamor in the solemn night. What a mere trifle, its rush to Farrelton! What a wearisome journey to poor Hervey!
He resumed his rather interesting exploit of walking on the two rails. At least, the train was off his mind. Suddenly, the right hand rail moved, his foot slipped, he felt a pinching then a twinge of pain; he tried to pull his foot free, lost his balance and fell. This strained his ankle and caused excruciating pain. He scrambled to his feet, pulling, jerking, squirming his foot while instinctively he cast a terrified look north and south along the track. Then he stood panic-stricken, listening. There was no sound except the steady hum of a locust and the all but inaudible clang of the rushing train. Spent by the increasing distance, this seemed to have merged into the lesser voices of the night, low, far away, steady. Hervey’s right foot was held as in a vise. Red Hill switch had caught him in its iron grip. Like a great, lurking crocodile, it held his poor foot fast in its cruel, locked jaws.
Hervey would perform any stunt conceivable, requiring only the incentive of a dare, and not always that. He was not afraid of peril. But now he was struck dumb with terror. With trembling hands he tried hurriedly to unlace his imprisoned shoe, but he only succeeded in getting the shoe-string in a hopeless knot. He tore at it and broke it by main strength and tried to pull his foot free of the shoe. He looked, listened. Was that an oncoming train? No, just the faint distant clanking of the train that had passed. There was reassurance in the far-off whistle. It was a receding whistle, not an approaching one. He wished that he had a time-table and a flashlight or a few matches. What was the new sound? He listened. Nothing.
He tugged and wrenched and wriggled his squeezed foot. The pain was intense, but it was nothing to his frantic fear. If he only had time; if he could only be sure that he would have a little time. And could know how much time he would have to—what? Act? Plow? But the knowledge that he would have half an hour, twenty minutes, would give him time to think. Now every distant sound was conjured into the sound of a distant train; the rustle of branches startled him.
The wild thought occurred to him that a fox caught in a snap-trap will sometimes gnaw its own leg off to get free. But he had not the courage nor the ability of a fox. If he only had a few matches he might reach about and collect enough dry grass to start a blaze. There was an old dried tie lying near; he might get that afire and thus warn an approaching train. But he had no matches. He had told Corby Lindman up at Temple Camp that he didn’t bother with matches, that all the farmers knew him and he could always get food and didn’t want to cook. As for signal fires, he never got lost. Well, here he was without matches. And he could not think of any other means of escape from horrible death; death which might be rushing toward him then and would overtake him any minute. He listened, his face twinging with agony. What—what was that? Why, it was only a hawk crying as when startled into flight. What had startled the hawk into flight? He would go insane and scream in a minute....
But no one would hear; the signal station was about a mile distant. It took care of the Wainboro Branch and the lumber camp siding. What a cruel thing it would have been to dare Hervey to get free! Would that, perhaps, have given him an inspiration? The only inspiration he had was to scream so that it pained his chest and made his head swim. The only answer was the soft, mocking echo of his own voice in the dark woodland.