out
into the heart of a driving tempest.

The foreman directed their movements to a track where a plug engine
had just backed in with a light caboose car. There was no air brake
attachment and the coupling was done quickly.

"All ready," reported Ralph, as Mr. Grant came up with the division
superintendent.

The railroad president stepped to the platform of the caboose, spoke a
few words to his recent companion in parting, and waved his hand
signal-like for the start.

Fogg had been over the Shelby division several times, only once,
however, on duty. He knew its "bad spots," and he tried to tell his
engineer about them as they steamed off the main track.

"There's just three stations the whole stretch," he reported, "and the
tracks are clear--that's one good point."

"Yes, it is only obstruction and breakdowns we have to look out for,"
said Ralph. "Give us plenty of steam, Mr. Fogg."

"There's heaps of fuel--a good six tons," spoke the fireman. "My! but
the stack pulls like a blast furnace."

The cab curtains were closely fastened. It was a terrible night. The
snow came in sheets like birdshot, a half-sleet that stung like hail
as it cut the face. The rails were crusted with ice and the sounds
and shocks at curves and splits were ominous. At times when they
breasted the wind full front it seemed as if a tornado was tugging at
the forlorn messenger of the night, to blow the little train from the
rails.

Fogg stoked the fire continuously, giving a superabundant power that
made the exhaust pop off in a deafening hiss. They ran the first ten
miles in twelve minutes and a half. Then as they rounded to the first
station on the run, they were surprised to receive the stop signal.

"That's bad," muttered the fireman, as they slowed down. "Orders were
for no stops, so this must mean some kind of trouble ahead."

"What's this?" spoke Mr. Grant sharply, appearing on the platform from
the lighted caboose. He held his watch in his hand, and his pale face
showed his anxiety and how he was evidently counting the minutes.

An operator ran out from the station and handed a tissue sheet to
Ralph. The latter read it by the light of the cab lantern. Mr. Grant
stepped down from the platform of the caboose.

"What is it, Fairbanks?" he asked somewhat impatiently.

"There's a great jam at the dam near Westbrook," reported Ralph.
"Driftwood has crossed the tracks near there, and the operator beyond
says it will be a blockade