e
track--a bad grade that necessitated an extra engine to help its brother
puff and tug the heavy trains up out of the valley. Between Jimtown and
the junction there was no station, and only one siding that ran out to
the Fetterolf quarries, ten miles below.

"The switch engine has gone after her," said the yard-master. "If she
can catch up before they reach the steep grade near the pine woods they
may be able to make a flying couple."

"She will never catch them now," said Mr. Mingle. "Heaven help all in
44!" A great sob like a shiver shook him. "Quick, hurry, Tomes!" he
said, shaking the yard-master violently. "Make up a wrecking train, and
send one of the boys to gather all the doctors. There are three of them
up near the hotel. I'll telegraph headquarters. They will be safe for
twenty minutes yet. Hurry, man. Don't sit there like a fool!"

The yard-master slipped his hat on his head and plunged down the steep
stairway.

The despatcher rubbed his forehead.

It was a hard thing to do! Sixty miles away they would know of the
accident before it occurred, simply by his touching the little
instrument that his trembling hand reached forward for. How could he
begin the message? The idea of that load of ore gathering frightful
headway every minute, whirling along through the darkness toward that
slowly approaching train, made him sick and faint. There was going to be
a wreck, and nothing in the whole world could stop it. In his mind's eye
he could see the crash. He could see what that fireman and engineer of
44 would see through the rain-drops in the glare from the head-light.
Old Jack Lane, he knew him well. It would be Jack's last trip. There
would not be time to think; no time to press the throttle. It would be
on them all at once.

The despatcher called up headquarters. Would they never answer? It
seemed already half an hour since the yard-master had left him.

Somebody thumped up the stairway.

"Hello, Mixer!" said a cheerful voice. "Fine night for ducks, eh?" The
speaker, a young man with a slight athletic frame, dashed his hat on the
table. "What's up, cully?" he asked; as Mr. Mingle turned from the
instrument, and the other caught a glimpse of his scared white face.

Mr. Mingle's voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting, but he spoke
slowly and distinctly. The young man he had been addressing had thrown
off his rubber coat. The tails had been pinned up, and his back was
covered with a streak of mud. Wh