John turned in from the platform to the telegraph-room, and Flynn followed him. As they advanced the instrument began a wild rataplan, and Steele paused, raising his hand for silence. Even Flynn, who did not understand its language, felt that the machine was making a frantic, agonised appeal.
“Listen to that!” cried Steele, a note of triumph in his voice.
“What’s it saying?” whispered the conductor, awed in spite of himself.
‘“Sidetrack Sixteen! Sidetrack Sixteen! In God’s name sidetrack Sixteen!’ There’s your orders at last, Flynn. It’s lucky you didn’t wait for them.”
The final words were obliterated by a roar as of a descending avalanche, and the express tore past, ripping the night and the silence; fifty miles an hour at the least; the long line of curtained windows in the sleeping-cars shimmering in the station lights like a wavering biograph picture—there and away while you drew your breath. In the stillness that followed, the brass instrument kept up its useless, idiotic chatter. A heavy step sounded on the platform, and the engineer appeared at the door, his face ghastly in its pallor, the smudges on it giving a heightening effect of contrast.
“God, Flynn,” he gasped, “that was a close call.”
The conductor nodded, and each man strode forward as if impelled by a single impulse to grasp hands with the youngster, who laughed nervously, saying: