A RACE AGAINST TIME
There was a thrill and fervor to the present situation that appealed
to Ralph mightily. The brisk, animated procedure of the president of
the Great Northern had been one of excitement and interest, and at its
climax the young engineer found himself stirred up strongly.
Mr. Grant smiled slightly at Ralph's valiant declaration. He drew the
division superintendent aside in confidential discourse, and Ralph
went to the bulletin board and began studying the routeing of the
Shelby division. Then he hurried out into the roundhouse.
No. 999 was steamed up quickly. Ralph put the cab in rapid order for a
hard run. The foreman hurried back to his office and telephoned to the
yards. When No. 999 ran out on the turntable it was the foreman
himself who opened the ponderous outside doors.
"It's some weather," observed Fogg, as the giant locomotive swung out
into the heart of a driving tempest.
The foreman directed their movements to a track where a plug engine
had just backed in with a light caboose car. There was no air brake
attachment and the coupling was done quickly.
"All ready," reported Ralph, as Mr. Grant came up with the division
superintendent.
The railroad president stepped to the platform of the caboose, spoke a
few words to his recent companion in parting, and waved his hand
signal-like for the start.
Fogg had been over the Shelby division several times, only once,
however, on duty. He knew its "bad spots," and he tried to tell his
engineer about them as they steamed off the main track.
"There's just three stations the whole stretch," he reported, "and the
tracks are clear--that's one good point."
"Yes, it is only obstruction and breakdowns we have to look out for,"
said Ralph. "Give us plenty of steam, Mr. Fogg."
"There's heaps of fuel--a good six tons," spoke the fireman. "My! but
the stack pulls like a blast furnace."
The cab curtains were closely fastened. It was a terrible night. The
snow came in sheets like birdshot, a half-sleet that stung like hail
as it cut the face. The rails were crusted with ice and the sounds
and shocks at curves and splits were ominous. At times when they
breasted the wind full front it seemed as if a tornado was tugging at
the forlorn messenger of the night, to blow the little train from the
rails.
Fogg stoked the fire continuously, giving a superabundant power that
made the exhaust pop off in a deafening hiss. They ran the first ten
miles in twelve minutes and a half. Then as they rounded to the first
station on the run, they were surprised to receive the stop signal.
"That's bad," muttered the fireman, as they slowed down. "Orders were
for no stops, so this must mean some kind of trouble ahead."
"What's this?" spoke Mr. Grant sharply, appearing on the platform from
the lighted caboose. He held his watch in his hand, and his pale face
showed his anxiety and how he was evidently counting the minutes.
An operator ran out from the station and handed a tissue sheet to
Ralph. The latter read it by the light of the cab lantern. Mr. Grant
stepped down from the platform of the caboose.
"What is it, Fairbanks?" he asked somewhat impatiently.
"There's a great jam at the dam near Westbrook," reported Ralph.
"Driftwood has crossed the tracks near there, and the operator beyond
says it will be a blockade if the dam breaks."
"Are you willing to risk it?" inquired the official.
"That's what we are here for," asserted Ralph.
"Then don't delay."
"It's getting worse and worse!" exclaimed Fogg, after a half-hour's
further running.
Ralph never forgot that vital hour in his young railroad experience.
They were facing peril, they were grazing death, and both knew it. The
wind was a hurricane. The snow came in great sheets that at times
enveloped them in a whirling cloud. The wheels crunched and slid, and
the pilot threw up ice and snow in a regular cascade.
There was a sickening slew to the great locomotive as they neared
Westbrook. The track dropped here to take the bridge grade, and as
they struck the trestle Fogg uttered a sharp yell and peered ahead.
"We can't stop now!" he shouted; "put on every pound of steam,
Fairbanks."
Ralph was cool and collected. He gripped the lever, his nerves set
like iron, but an awed look came into his eyes as they swept the
expanse that the valley opened up.
The trestle was fully half a foot under water already, and the volume
was increasing every moment. Fogg piled on the coal, which seemed to
burn like tinder. Twice a great jar sent him sprawling back among the
coal of the tender. The shocks were caused by great cakes of ice or
stray timbers shooting down stream with the gathering flood, and
sliding the rails.
"She's broke!" he panted in a hushed, hoarse whisper, as they caught
sight of the dam. There was a hole in its center, and through this
came pouring a vast towering mass fully fifteen feet high, crashing
down on the bridge side of the obstruction, shooting mammoth bergs of
ice into the air. As the sides of the dam gave way, they were fairly
half-way over the trestle. It seemed that the roaring, swooping mass
would overtake them before they could clear the bridge.
The light caboose was swinging after its groaning pilot like the tail
of a kite. A whiplash sway and quiver caused Ralph to turn his head.
The door of the caboose was open, and the light streaming from within
showed the railroad president clinging to the platform railing,
swaying from side to side. He evidently realized the peril of the
moment, and stood ready to jump if a crash came.
A sudden shock sent the fireman reeling back, and Ralph was nearly
thrown from his seat. The locomotive was bumping over a floating piece
of timber of unusual size, and toppling dangerously. Then there came
a snap. The monster engine made a leap as if freed from some incubus.
"The caboose!" screamed Fogg, and Ralph felt a shudder cross his
frame. He could only risk a flashing glance backward--the caboose was
gone! It had broken couplings, and had made a dive down through the
flood rack clear to the bottom of the river, out of sight. Then
No. 999 struck the edge of the up grade in safety, past the danger
line, gliding along on clear tracks now.
Fogg stood panting for breath, clinging to his seat, a wild horror in
his eyes. Ralph uttered a groan. His hand gripped to pull to stop, a
sharp shout thrilled through every nerve a message of gladness and
joy.
"Good for you--we've made it!"
The railroad president came sliding down the diminished coal heap at
the rear of the tender. He had grasped its rear end, and had climbed
over it just as the caboose went hurtling to destruction. The glad
delight and relief in the eyes of the young engineer revealed to the
official fully his loyal friendship. Fogg, catching sight of him,
helped him to his feet with a wild hurrah. The fireman's face shone
with new life as he swung to his work at the coal heap.
"If we can only make it--oh, we've got to make it now!" he shouted at
Ralph.
There was a sharp run of nearly an hour. It was along the lee side of
a series of cuts, and the snow was mainly massed on the opposite set
of rails. Ralph glanced at the clock.
"We're ahead of calculations," he spoke to Fogg.
"We're in for another struggle, though," announced the fireman. "When
we strike the lowlands just beyond Lisle, we'll catch it harder than
ever."
Ralph was reeking with perspiration, his eyes cinder-filled and glazed
with the strain of continually watching ahead. There had not been a
single minute of relief from duty all the way from Westbrook. They
struck the lowlands. It was a ten-mile run. First it was a great
snowdrift, then a dive across a trembling culvert. At one point the
water and slush pounded up clear across the floor of the cab and
nearly put out the fire. As No. 999 rounded to higher grade, a tree
half blown down from the top of an embankment grazed the locomotive,
smashing the headlight and cutting off half the smokestack clean as a
knife stroke.
Ralph made no stop for either inspection or repairs. A few minutes
later an incident occurred which made the occasion fairly bristle with
new animation and excitement.
Mr. Grant had sat quietly in the fireman's seat. Now he leaned over
towards Ralph, pointing eagerly through the side window.
"I see," said Ralph above the deafening roar of the wind and the
grinding wheels, "the Night Express."
They could see the lights of the train ever and anon across an open
space where, about a mile distant, the tracks of the Midland Central
paralleled those of the Shelby division of the Great Northern. The
young engineer again glanced at the clock. His eye brightened, into
his face came the most extravagant soul of hope. It was dashed
somewhat as Fogg, feeding the furnace and closing the door, leaned
towards him with the words:
"The last shovel full."
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Ralph.
The fireman swept his hand towards the empty tender.
"Eight miles," said Ralph in an anxious tone. "With full steam we
could have reached the Junction ten minutes ahead of the Express. Will
the fire last out?"
"I'll mend it some," declared the fireman. "Fairbanks, we might
lighten the load," he added.
"You mean----"
"The tender."
"Yes," said Ralph, "cut it loose," and a minute later the railroad
president uttered a sudden cry as the tender shot into the distance,
uncoupled. Then he understood, and smiled excitedly. And then, as Fogg
reached under his seat, pulled out a great bundle of waste and two oil
cans, and flung them into the furnace, he realized the desperate
straits at which they had arrived and their forlorn plight.
Conserving every ounce of steam, all of his nerves on edge, the young
engineer drove No. 999 forward like some trained steed. As they
rounded a hill just outside of Shelby Junction, they could see the
Night Express steaming down its tracks, one mile away.
"We've made it!" declared Ralph, as they came within whistling
distance of the tower at the interlocking rails where the two lines
crossed.
"Say," yelled Fogg suddenly, "they've given the Express the right of
way."
This was true. Out flashed the stop signal for No. 999, and the white
gave the "come on" to the Night Express. There was no time to get to
the tower and try to influence the towerman to cancel system at the
behest of a railroad president.
"You must stop that train!" rang out the tones of the official
sharply.
"I'm going to," replied Fairbanks grimly.
He never eased up on No. 999. Past the tower she slid. Then a glowing
let up, and then, disregarding the lowered gates, she crashed straight
through them, reducing them to kindling wood.
Squarely across the tracks of the incoming train the giant engine,
battered, ice-coated, the semblance of a brave wreck, was halted.
There she stood, a barrier to the oncoming Express.
Ralph jumped from his seat, reached under it, pulled out a whole bunch
of red fuses, lit them, and leaning out from the cab flared them
towards the oncoming train, Roman-candle fashion.
The astonished towerman quickly changed the semaphore signals. Her
nose almost touching No. 999, the Express locomotive panted down to a
halt.
"You shall hear from me, my men," spoke the railroad president simply,
but with a great quiver in his voice, as he leaped from the cab, ran
to the first car of the halted express and climbed to its platform.
Ralph drove No. 999 across the switches. The Express started on its
way again. In what was the proudest moment of his young life, the
loyal engineer of staunch, faithful No. 999 saw the president of the
Great Northern take off his hat and wave it towards himself and Fogg,
as if with an enthusiastic cheer.