. It was a warm summer morning, sultry even, as
has been said, but it was cool and shady against the rock ledge. Peace
fell upon Sammy Durgan--drowsily. Also, presently, the black cutty
fell, or, rather, slipped down into Sammy Durgan's lap--without
disturbing Sammy Durgan.

A half hour, three-quarters of an hour passed--and MacMurtrey, far up
at the extreme end of the construction camp, let a sudden yell out of
him and started on a mad run toward the tank-car and the summit of the
grade, as a series of screeches in seven different varieties of
language smote his ears, and a great burst of black smoke rolling
skyward met his startled gaze. But fast as he ran, the Polacks, Swedes
and Hungarians were faster--pipe smoking under discharging oil-tank
cars and in the shadow of a dynamite storage shed they were accustomed
to, but to the result, a blazing oil-tank car shooting a flame against
the walls of the dynamite shed, they were not--they were only aroused
to action with their lives in peril, and they acted promptly and
earnestly--too earnestly. Some one threw the main line open, and the
others crowbarred the blazing car like mad along the few feet of siding
to get it away from the storage shed, bumped it on the main line, and
then their bars began to lose their purchase under the wheels--the
grade accommodatingly took a hand.

MacMurtrey, tearing along toward the scene, yelled like a crazy man:

"Block her! Block the wheels! You--you----" His voice died in a
gasp. "D'ye hear!" he screamed, as he got his breath again. "Block
the wheels!"

And the Polacks, the Swedes, the Hungarians and the What-Nots, scared
stiff, screeched and jabbered, as they watched the tank-car, gaining
speed with every foot it travelled, sail down the grade. And
MacMurtrey, too late to do anything, stopped dead in his tracks--his
face ashen. He pulled his watch, licked dry lips, and kind of
whispered to himself.

"Number Three 'll be on the foot of the grade now," whispered
MacMurtrey, and licked his lips again. "Oh, my God!"

Meanwhile, down the grade around the bend, Sammy Durgan yawned, sat up,
and cocked his ear summitwards.

"Now what the devil are them crazy foreigners yelling about!"
complained Sammy Durgan unhappily. "'Tis always the way with them,
like a cageful of screeching cockatoos, they are--but being foreigners
mabbe they can't help it, 'tis their nature to yell without provocation
and----"

Sammy Durgan's ear