Dan's face was white in the murky, smoky twilight that filled the room. Durks looked anxious—the limit of his emotional capacity. He was a lank, colorless youth, with pale yellow tobacco stains about the corners of his mouth, and a large nose, which was superior to its surroundings.
Oakley broke silence with:
“What's gone through to-day, Joe?”
“Nothing's gone through on the B. & A. There's nothing to send from this end of the line,” the operator answered, nervously.
“What went through yesterday?”
“Nothing yesterday, either.”
“Where is No. 7?”
“It's down at Harrison, Mr. Oakley.”
“And No. 9?”
“It's at Harrison, too.”