The man paused at the missionary’s table, and clutched it to steady himself. He bent over it, and anxious eyes looked into those of Arthur Steele.
“They’ve broke away, Mister Steele,” he said, in a tone intended for the missionary’s ears alone. “She’s doing sixty. And she’ll be doing a hundred and twenty when we hit the river. Ther’ ain’t a thing to be done but keep the folks from jumpin’. That way they’ll be killed sure. Ther’s a chance they’ll hold her up in time by reversing the ‘loco.’ I’m going forrard to the handbrakes. Will you kep ’em quiet? It’s the only chance. The vacuum’s petered plumb. We’ve got the boys on the freight brakes. It’s our best hope.”
The conductor hurried away. The panic he feared in the passengers was certainly looking out of his own eyes. Steele’s hand suddenly sought that of his wife as the man passed on with his sickly grin.
“Keep calm,” he said. “I must lie to them.”
Helen gave no outward sign of any fear beyond the anxiety in the eyes which clung to her husband’s face. The missionary stood up and turned to the panic-stricken passengers.
It was evident to him at once how desperately charged was the human atmosphere of the car. Scarcely restrained panic was in every face. And it was tugging at his own heart as he thought of the little son at the far end of the train, and of the helpless woman beside him. But he resolutely smothered his fears and lied in a voice that rang out above the din of the speeding train. He lied far beyond anything the trainman had attempted. And he had his reward.
Every passenger had resumed his seat when the missionary sat down.
“The bend can’t be far off.”
Helen’s voice was barely audible in the din.
“We shall jump the track if——”