the kindly common-sense of his older
friend, followed each suggestion promptly. Scott, who ordinarily would
himself have been running around on the job, made no move to leave the
room, thinking he could be of more service in remaining with the
unfortunate despatcher. The yard became a scene of instant activity.
And although no organization to meet emergencies of this kind had been
as yet effected on the new division, the men responded intelligently
and promptly with the necessary arrangements.

Everyone summoned tried to get into the dispatchers' room to hear the
story repeated. Scott took it upon himself to prevent this, and
standing in the anteroom made all explanations himself. He rejoined
Bucks after getting rid of the crowd, and the moment the relief train
reported ready the despatcher sent it out, that help might reach the
scene of disaster at the earliest possible moment. Bucks, calmed
somewhat but suffering intensely, paced the floor or threw himself
into his chair, while Scott picked up the despatcher's old copy of
"The Last of the Mohicans," and smoking silently sat immovable,
waiting with his customary stoicism for the call that should announce
the dreaded wreck.

The moments loaded with anxiety went with leaden feet while the two
men sat. It seemed as if the first hour never would pass. Then the
long silence of the little receiver was broken by a call for the
dispatcher. Bucks sprang to answer it.

Scott watched his face as he sent his "Ay, ay." Without understanding
what the instruments clicked, he read the expressions that followed
one after the other across Bucks's countenance, as he would have read
a desert trail. He noted the perplexity on the despatcher's face when
the latter tried to get the sender of the call.

"Some one is cutting in on the line," exclaimed Bucks, mystified, as
the sounder clicked. "Bob, it is Bill Dancing."

A pause followed. "What can it mean, his sending a message to me? He
is between Bitter Creek and Castle Springs. Wait a moment!"

The receiver clicked sharp and fast. Scarcely able to control his
voice in his anxiety, Bucks turned to the now excited scout: "The
trains met between Bitter Creek and Castle Springs. There was no
collision!"

Almost collapsing with the passing of the strain, Bucks faltered in
his taking. Asking Dancing again for the story, Bucks took it more
coolly and repeated it to his eager listener, as it came.

"Dancing was out with two men on the li