“Do you know what they are doing at Harrison?” demanded Oakley, angrily.
It seemed criminal negligence that no apparent effort had as yet been made to reach Antioch.
“I don't,” said Durks, laconically, biting his nails. “I suppose they are waiting for the fire to burn out.”
“Why don't you know?” persisted Dan, tartly. His displeasure moved the operator to a fuller explanation.
“It was cut off yesterday morning. The last word I got was that No. 7 was on a siding there, and that No. 9, which started at 8.15 for Antioch, had had to push back. The fire was in between Antioch and Harrison, on both sides of the track, and blazing to beat hell.”
Having reached this verbal height, he relapsed into comparative indifference.
“Where's the freight?” questioned Oakley.
“The last I heard it was trying to make Parker's Run.”
“When was that?”
“That was yesterday morning, too. It had come up that far from Antioch the day before to haul out four carloads of ties. Holt gave the order. It is still there, for all I know—that is, if it ain't burned or ditched. I sent down the extra men from the yards here to help finish loading the cars. I had Holt's order for it, and supposed he knew what was wanted. They ain't come back, but they got there ahead of the freight all right.”