It swung to the straight track, the beams of the headlight illuminating the rear of the stalled train. It was then that the whistle shrieked and the train quickly ground to a stop about a hundred yards short of the caboose.
A man dropped from the engine and came up to the caboose. It was a uniformed brakeman.
“What’s that ahead—a fire?” he asked, swinging up on the steps.
“Bridge on fire,” said Hashknife. “Looks like we’re here for a while.”
“Pshaw! Some wind, eh? Say, I wonder why nobody was flaggin’ the rear of this train?”
“They did,” declared Hashknife. “I saw the brakeman start back with his fuses and lantern.”
“You did? That’s funny, we never seen him.”
The conductor came out and corroborated Hashknife. In a few minutes the conductor of the passenger came along. He was a fussy little fat man, very important. He wheezed his profanity.
“Can’t get across, eh? ⸺! Wires down behind us. Nothing to do but wait. How did it happen you didn’t send out a flag? We might have rammed you.”
“Flag went out!” snapped the freight conductor.