AT THE SEMAPHORE
THE young engineer of No. 999 struggled to his feet appalled. The case
seemed hopeless. He had matches in his pocket. In dry weather under
the same circumstances he might to gather up enough dry grass and
brush to build a fire between the rails, but now, with everything
soaked and dripping this was impossible.
"The semaphore signal!" gasped Ralph. "Can I reach it in time?"
He crossed the remainder of the trestle in desperate leaps. Ralph
calculated the distance to the semaphore, the distance of the train,
and his heart failed him. Still he kept on. His eyes were fixed on the
lantern aloft showing open tracks for the oncoming train. It was his
star of hope. Then as he reached it he saw that he was too late.
To scale the slippery timber to the staple-runners without boot hooks
would be no easy task. To get to the first rung and ascend would
consume fully two minutes' time.
"What shall I do--what can I do?" panted the young railroader in
desperation.
Just beyond the semaphore was a symmetrical heap of bleached blocks of
rock comprising a landmark guide for engineers. Ralph ran to it.
Groping among the gravel at its base, his fingers frantically grasped
several loose stones. He glanced once at the glowering headlight of
No. 38.
"If I can make it--if I can only make it!" he voiced, and the
aspiration was a kind of a wail.
The young engineer of No. 999 had been the former leader of all boyish
sports and exercises in Stanley Junction. Posed as he had posed many
times in the past when he was firing at a mark, with all his skill, he
calculated aim, distance and fling. The bull's eye target was the
lantern pendant from the arm of the semaphore.
One--failed! the missile missed its intended mark.
Two--a ringing yell of delight, of hope, of triumph rang from the lips
of the young engineer. The skillfully-aimed projectile had struck the
glass of the signal, shivering it to atoms. The wind and rain did the
rest. Out went the light.
A sharp whistle from No. 38, the hiss of the air brakes, and panting
and exhausted, the young engineer of No. 999 watched the Night
Express whiz by on a lessening run and come to a stop two hundred
yards away.
Ralph dashed after the train, now halted beyond the trestle. He did
not heed the shout of the brakeman already out on the tracks, but got
up to the locomotive just as the conductor, lantern in hand, reached
it.
"Hello!" shot out the engineer of No. 38, staring at the figure
outlined within the halo of the conductor's light--"Fairbanks!"
"Why, so it is!" exclaimed the conductor, and it was easy for him to
discern from Ralph's sudden appearance and breathless manner that he
had some interest, if not an active part, in the mysterious
disappearance of the semaphore signal. "What is it, Fairbanks?"
Very hurriedly Ralph explained. The engineer of No. 38 uttered a low
whistle, meantime regarding the active young railroader, whom he well
knew, with a glance of decided admiration. Then as hurried were the
further movements of the conductor.
Within a very few minutes a brakeman was speeding back to Widener to
inform the man on duty there of the condition of affairs. He returned
to report the situation in safe official control all up and down the
line. In the meantime No 38. had moved up to the scene of the wreck.
This was done at the suggestion of Ralph, who did not know how the
passengers in the special coach might have fared. Arrived at the
scene, however, it was soon learned that two men only had been thrown
from their beds and slightly bruised. The rest of the passengers were
only shaken up.
The frightened passengers were huddled up, drenched to the skin, at
the side of the gap, for Fogg had insisted on their taking no risk
remaining in the derailed coach.
"We're stalled for three hours," decided the engineer of No. 38.
"Yes, and more than that, if the wrecking gang is not at Virden, as we
suppose," added the conductor.
The passengers of the derailed coach were taken to shelter in a coach
which backed to Widener. There was nothing to do now for the engineer
and fireman of No. 999 but to await the arrival of the wrecking crew.
Word came finally by messenger from the dispatcher at the station that
the same was on its way to the Gap. Inside of two hours the coach was
back on the rails, and No. 999 moved ahead, took on transferred
passengers from No. 38, and renewed the run to Bridgeport on a
make-time schedule.
There had been a good many compliments for the young engineer from
the crew of No. 38. The conductor had expressed some gratifying
expressions of appreciation from the passengers who had heard of
Ralph's thrilling feat at the semaphore. The conductor of the special
coach attached to No. 999 had come up and shook hands with Ralph, a
choking hoarseness in his throat as he remarked: "It's a honor to
railroad with such fellows as you." Fogg had said little. There were
many grim realities in railroading he knew well from experience. This
was only one of them. After they started from Widener he had given his
engineer a hearty slap of the shoulder, and with shining eyes made the
remark:
"This is another boost for you, Fairbanks."
"For No. 999, you mean," smiled Ralph significantly. "We'll hope so,
anyway, Mr. Fogg."
Wet, grimed, cinder-eyed, but supremely satisfied, they pulled into
Bridgeport with a good record, considering the delay at the Gap. The
conductor of the special coach laid off there. No. 999 was to get back
to Stanley Junction as best she could and as quickly. As she cut loose
from the coach its conductor came up with an envelope.
"My passengers made up a little donation, Fairbanks," the man said.
"There's a newspaper man among them. He's correspondent for some daily
press association. Been writing up 'the heroic dash--brave youth at
the trestle--forlorn hope of an unerring marksman'--and all that."
"Oh, he's not writing for a newspaper," laughed Ralph; "he's making up
a melodrama."
"Well, he'll make you famous, just the same, and here's some
government photographs for you lucky fellows," added the conductor,
tossing the envelope in his hand into the cab.
Fogg grinned over his share of the fifty-dollar donation and accepted
it as a matter of course. Ralph said nothing, but he was somewhat
affected. He was pleased at the recognition of his earnest services.
At the same time the exploit of the night had shaken his nerves
naturally, and reminded him of all the perils that accompanied a
practical railroad career. A stern sense of responsibility made him
thoughtful and grave, and he had in mind many a brave, loyal fellow
whose fame had been unheralded and unsung, who had stuck to his post
in time of danger and had given up his life to save others.
No. 999 was back at Stanley Junction by eight o'clock the next
morning. When Ralph reached home he was so tired out he did not even
wait for breakfast, but went straightway to his bed.
He came down the stairs in the morning bright as a dollar, to hear his
mother humming a happy song in the dining-room, and Fred Porter
softly accompanying with a low-toned whistle on the veranda. The
latter, waving a newspaper in his hand, made a dash for Ralph.
"Look!" he exclaimed, pointing to some sensational headlines. "They've
got you in print with a vengeance. A whole column about 'the last
heroic exploit of our expert young railroader and rising
townsman--Engineer Fairbanks.'"