“Sure,” clicked McFlin; “77 on time. Pass her through. Rotten night,
isn’t it? They got a plow leading the limited like a blind baby.
So-long.”
That was at eleven two. Twenty minutes later Donaldson started after
us again, but it was a chattering, wild Donaldson; a new Donaldson who
tumbled his letters over each other.
“N-H, N-H, N-H,” he stuttered, even after I had opened the wire. “N-H,
N-H.”