“Say,” exclaimed Carse, “do you suppose they're going back to Manchester to have another shot at the old man? I brought them back from there yesterday on No. 5, and they were the sickest crowd you ever saw. The old man can give them just about all they want.”
He paused and glanced at his watch. “We pull out in thirty seconds,” he said. And at two o'clock No. 14 started northward on what was to prove a most eventful run in the history of the M. & T. The train rattled over the yard switches, slid creaking under the brakes down to the river, rumbled across the bridge, and then toiled up the first of the long grades between Truesdale and Sawyerville.
Carse was collecting tickets in the second car when suddenly it thrilled and trembled, and the train, with grinding squealing brakes, came to a stop. The conductor was all but thrown from his feet, but he staggered to the platform, and leaping down ran toward the engine, followed by an excited crowd of passengers.
“What's the matter?” he demanded of Downs, whom he found clambering out of the cab.
“That's what I want to know,” answered the engineer. “Didn't you pull the signal cord?”
“No,” said Carse, looking puzzled. “I wonder what's up.”
At that moment a man came forward from the group of passengers: it was McDowell. “I signalled you to stop,” he said.
Carse waited an instant for him to go on, and then asked impatiently, “Well, what's wrong?”
“Nothing that I know of,” said McDowell, easily. “I wanted the train to stop.”
Carse stepped toward him angrily. “I don't know whether you're drunk or not,” he said, “but that's a damned poor kind of a joke. You'll find that out as soon as we get to Sawyerville.”