anic's mistakes. The game was a farce.

"What's the matter, Tommy?" asked Carleton gravely, as Regan made a
misdeal twice in succession.

"Nothing," said Regan shortly. "Go on, play; it's your bid."

Carleton shook his head.

"You're taking it too much to heart, Tommy," he said. "It won't do you
any good--either of you--you or Dan. He'll pull out of it somehow.
You'll see."

There was a queer look on Regan's face as he stared for an instant at
Carleton across the table, and he opened his lips as though to say
something--and closed them again in a hard line instead.

Carleton bid.

"It's yours," said Regan.

Carleton led--and then Regan, with a sweep of his hand, shot his cards
into the center of the table.

"It's no good," he said gruffly, getting up. "I can't play the blamed
game to-night, I----" He stopped suddenly and turned his head, as a
chair scraped sharply in the despatchers' room next door.

A step sounded in the hall, the super's door was flung open, and Spence
put in his head.

One glance at the despatcher, and Carleton was on his feet.

"What's the matter, Spence?" he asked, quick and hard.

Regan hadn't moved--but Regan spoke now, answering the question that
was addressed to the despatcher, and answering it in a strangely
assertive, absolute, irrefutable way.

"The local," he said. "Number Forty-seven. Dan MacCaffery's dead."

Both men stared at him in amazement--and Spence, sort of unconsciously,
nodded his head.

"Yes," said Spence, still staring at Regan. "There was some sort of
engine trouble just west of Big Eddy in the Beaver Canyon. I haven't
got the rights of it yet, only that somehow MacCaffery got his engine
stopped just in time to keep the train from going over the bridge
embankment--and went out doing it. There's no one else hurt. Dawes,
the fireman, and Conductor Neale walked back to Big Eddy. I've got
them on the wire now. Come into the other room."

Regan stepped to the door mechanically, and, with Carleton behind him,
followed Spence into the despatchers' room. There, Carleton,
tight-lipped, leaned against the table; Regan, his face like stone,
took his place at Spence's elbow, as the despatcher dropped into his
chair.

There wasn't a sound in the room for a moment save the clicking of the
sender in a quick tattoo under Spence's fingers. Then Spence picked up
a pencil and began scribbling the message on a pad, as the sounder
spoke--Billy Dawes was dict