's nothing serious but Glen Eddy creek."

The silence that followed was broken, a few minutes later, by two
piercing blasts from the whistle. The fireman had already seen the
danger, and sprung to the brake-wheel on the tender behind him. On every
car the brakes were grinding harshly, set up by nervous, lusty young
arms. The train did not come to a standstill an instant too soon; for,
as it did so, the cow-catcher was already half buried in a slide from
one of the treacherous banks of the Beasely cut.

An hour's hard work by all the train hands, and some of the passengers,
with shovels and spades, cleared the track, and once more the express
proceeded slowly on its uncertain way.

Now for the Glen Eddy bridge. Between it and the city that marked the
end of the line was the best stretch of road-bed in the state. It was a
long one, but it presented no dangers that a railroad man need fear.

The gray dawn was breaking as the train approached Glen Eddy creek. In
the summer-time it was a quiet stream, slipping dreamily along between
its heavily wooded banks. Now it was a furious torrent, swollen beyond
all recognition, and clutching spitefully at the wooden piers of heavy
crib-work that upheld the single span of the bridge.

The train was stopped and the bridge was examined. It seemed all right,
and the conductor gave the word to go ahead. It was the last order he
ever issued; for, in another minute, the undermined piers had given way,
and the train was piled up in the creek a shapeless wreck.

From that terrible plunge only two persons escaped unharmed. One was
Luke Matherson, the engine-driver, and the other was the baby. When the
former felt his engine dropping from under him, he sprang from it, with
desperate energy, far out into the muddy waters, that instantly closed
over him. On coming to the surface, the instinct of self-preservation
forced him to swim, but it was wildly and without an idea of direction
or surroundings. For nearly a minute he swam with all his strength
against the current, so that he was still near the wreck, when his
senses were again quickened into action by a smothered cry, close at
hand. At the same time a dark mass drifted towards him, and he seized
hold of it. As the cry seemed to come from this, the man's struggles
became directed by a definite purpose. Partially supporting himself by
the wreckage, he attempted to guide it to the nearest bank; but so swift
was the current that he was swep