brupt curve, and dashed right into a
cloud of smoke, while the crackle of flame spit and sparkled, bringing
them up short with speechless horror. The huge, wooden railroad trestle
spanning Whitefish Creek was in flames. For an instant the entire gang
gazed at it dumbly. Then a boy yelled:

"Great Scott, fellows, isn't it good there's no train due? She'd plunge
round this curve right into it."

Then Benny Ellis went white. "Who's got a watch?" he asked very quietly.

"My Ingersoll says five-fifteen, and she's right, too," replied Joe
McKenzie.

Benny gulped; he seemed to find a difficulty in speaking, but the words
finally came. "My dad went down to Grey's Point to bring up a special
to-night, the Divisional Superintendent's private car and some fast
freight. They're--they're--they're due about now."

"Thanks be! Grey's Point is this side of the trestle. We can stop them,"
shouted Joe, and without argument "the gang" turned, tearing at a
breakneck pace around the curve, and through the cut, in a hopeless
effort to make their home town before the special reached it.

Breathlessly they ran for ten minutes, stumbling along the sleepers,
recovering, then forging ahead, until, cutting the evening air, came
a long, thin whistle, and immediately afterwards the black nose of an
engine and a ribbon of smoke rounded a distant curve, and came bearing
down on them at the rate of forty-five miles an hour.

"The gang" paused, standing rock still for an instant, then five of them
danced up and down, waving their arms wildly, to signal the train to
stop. But the sixth boy--Benny Ellis--white as a sheet, was tearing
madly at his collar, and dragging off his coat. Then quick as a flash he
skinned from his narrow shoulders his blue cotton shirt, faded almost
white by the summer suns, and dashing down the track towards the
oncoming engine, whirled it high above his head in five distinct
circles, while his young voice, hoarse with a frenzy of fear, shrieked,
"Father, father! Oh, dad, try to remember. Try, try!"

And from the cab of the great mogul, Engineer Ellis was peering out with
his keen eyes piercing the track ahead, his hand at the throttle.

"Jim," he called abruptly to his fireman. There was something in his
tone that made Jim fling himself to the window. Then both men exclaimed
simultaneously, "It's a hold-up."

"There's six of them, and one's got a gun," gasped the engineer. "We'll
have to crowd on steam and rush them,