“Oh, no, I won't,” said McDowell. “I'm superintendent of this road, and the first thing I'm going to do is to fire you. Haven,”—he called to one of the group behind him,—“you can take this train to Manchester.”
Another man pushed into the circle. He was Stewart, the sheriff of Evelyn County. “Mr. McDowell is quite right. Mr. Frederick McNally, the receiver of the road, appointed him this morning. And I now serve on you a writ from Judge Black—”
“See here,” interrupted Carse, “are you sheriff of Evelyn County or of the whole United States? You'd better keep out of this; the county line's about half a mile back.”
“We're wasting time,” said McDowell, shortly. “James and Mangan, take the engine. We'll take charge of this train, sir, county or no county.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Carse, under his breath. Then shouting, “Get away, boys; don't mind me,” he sprang upon McDowell, hitting out swift and hard, and in a second the two men were clinched and rolling in the sand. Downs took the hint and, leaping into the cab, let off the air brake and seized the throttle, while Berg, his big fireman, wrenched free from the two men who tried to hold him and rushed toward the cab. For a moment it looked as though No. 14 was going to get away.
But the first detachment of Mr. McNally's army was not at hand for nothing. Berg was pulled down from the step he had succeeded in reaching, and a blow from behind stretched him unconscious beside the track. Downs caught up the shovel which lay at his feet, and brought it down hard on a man who was climbing over the tender; then without turning he drove the handle squarely into the face of another who was standing on the step and trying to clutch his legs. But the odds were too great, and in a moment he was rushed back against the fire-box, and his arms were pinioned fast. McDowell had been freed from his assailant by two of his brawny supporters, and he rose to his feet with some difficulty; the blood was streaming down his face, but he was quite cool. Seeing that resistance was at an end, he called to the men in the engine:—
“Let up on that man; we don't want to kill him. Bring him down here.”
A moment later, he said: “Put bracelets on all three of them and take them into the smoker. Some of you stay around and see that they don't do any more mischief.” Then turning to the men he had already ordered to take charge of the train, he said: “All right, boys, let her go. We're nearly ten minutes late.”
McNally's plans were well laid; so well laid that McDowell's mistake in not stopping the train soon enough did not prevent their being carried out successfully. The sheriff of Malden County had been told what was expected of him, and he was waiting on the platform of the Sawyerville station when No. 14 pulled in. There had been no warning, there was no possibility of resistance, and everything moved as smoothly as clockwork. The writs were served, the telegraph office seized, and the M. & T. employees about the station replaced by McDowell's “boys” almost before the dazed incumbents knew what was happening. The new telegraph operator wired to McNally, who had already taken possession of the Truesdale terminal, telling him briefly of the fight for the train and the capture of Sawyerville. McNally sent back brief instructions for the conduct of the rest of the raid. They were told to make no attempt to keep schedule time, but to go slowly and cautiously, and to use as little violence as possible. Altogether McDowell had reason to feel well satisfied when he came out on the station platform ready to take his train on its unique journey up the road.
There stood near him a number of passengers gathered in an excited group, discussing the fight, the delay of the train, and the somewhat remote chance of getting to Manchester. One of them, a very stout man with deep-set, watery eyes and a florid complexion, recognized the Superintendent and turned to him.