"Three—twenty-nine—twenty-seven!" said the member of the press.
The start had been made thirty-three seconds ahead of time, and each member of the party settled himself down to the work ahead.
Over each division of the road the superintendent of that division rode as "caller-off" of the stations as they were passed. It was necessary, during the first hours of darkness especially, that some one should do this who was familiar with every foot of the track—some one who would not have to rely on eyesight alone, but to whose accustomed senses every sway of the car as a curve was passed, and every sound of the wheels on bridge or culvert, would be familiar.
The first station, Whiting, is only three and one-half miles from the starting-point. The night outside was intensely black, and it was doubtful whether even the practised eye and ear of Superintendent Newell would be able to catch the little station as it went by. With one eye on our watches, therefore, we all had also one anxious eye on him where he sat with his head hidden under the shade that was drawn behind him, a blanket held over the crevices to shut out every ray of light, and his face pressed close against the glass. The minutes passed slowly—one, two, three, four, five! Whiting must be very near, and—but just as we began to fear that he had missed the station, the word came:
"Ready for Whiting!" and the response,
"Ready for Whiting!"
A few short seconds of silence, and then:
"Now!"
Instantly the muscles of the waiting fingers throbbed on the split-stop; but no quicker than the roar told that the car was already passing the station.
"Three—thirty-four—forty-five!" called the time-keeper.