THE ONLY CHANCE OF SAVING THE SPECIAL.
So well did Truman Stump and his young fireman understand each other,
that, as locomotive number 10 sprang away on her race after the special,
there was no necessity for words between them. Only after Rod had done
everything in his power to ensure a full head of steam and paused for a
moment's breathing-spell, did he step up behind the engineman and ask,
"What is it, True?"
"Minkskill bridge gone! We are trying to catch the special," answered
the driver, briefly, without turning his head. It was enough; and Rod
instantly comprehended the situation. There was a choking sensation in his
throat, as he remembered the face disclosed by the lightning a few moments
before, and realized the awful danger that now threatened the sunny-haired
girl who had been his playmate, and was still his friend. With a
desperate energy he flung open the furnace-door, and toiled to feed the
roaring flames behind it. They almost licked his face in their mad
leapings, as their scorching breath mingled with his. He was bathed in
perspiration; and, when the front windows of the cab were forced open by
the fierce pressure of the gale, he welcomed the cold blast and hissing
rain that swept through it.
Number 10 had now attained a fearful speed, and rocked so violently from
side to side that its occupants were obliged to brace themselves and cling
to the solid framework. It was a miracle that she kept the track. At each
curve, and there were many of them on this section, Rod held his breath,
fully expecting the mighty mass of iron to leap from the rails and plunge
headlong into the yawning blackness. But she clung to them, and the steady
hand at the throttle opened it wider, and still a little wider, until the
handle had passed any limit that even the old engineman had ever seen.
Still the young fireman, with set teeth and nerves like steel, watched the
dial on the steam-gauge, and flung coal to the raging flames behind the
glowing furnace-door.
Mile after mile was passed in half the same number of minutes, and outside
objects were whirled backward in one continuous, undistinguishable blur.
The limb of a tree, flung to the track by the mighty wind, was caught up
by the pilot and dashed against the head-light, instantly extinguishing
it. So they rushed blindly on, through a blackness intensified by gleams
of electric light, that every now and then ran like fiery serpents along
the rails, or bathed the flying engine with its pallid flames.
They were not more than two miles from the deadly bridge when they first
saw the red lights on the rear of the special. The engineman's hand
clutched the whistle lever; and, high above the shriek of the storm,
sounded the quick, sharp blasts of the danger signal. A moment later they
swept past a glare of red fire blazing beside the track. The enginemen of
the special had not understood their signal, and had thrown out a fusee to
warn them of his presence immediately in front of them.
"I'll have to set you aboard, Rod," shouted Truman Stump, and the young
fireman knew what he meant. He did not answer; but crawling through the
broken window and along the reeling foot-board, using his strength and
agility as he had never used them before, the boy made his way to the
pilot of the locomotive. Crouching there, and clinging to its slippery
braces, he made ready for the desperate spring that should save or lose
everything.
Foot by foot, in reality very quickly, but seemingly at a laggard pace, he
was borne closer and closer to the red lights, until they shone full in
his face. Then, with all his energies concentrated into one mighty effort,
he launched himself forward, and caught, with outstretched hands, the iron
railing of the platform on which were the lights. Drawing himself up on
it, he dashed into the astonished group standing in the glass-surrounded
observation-room, that occupied the rear of the car, crying:
"Stop the train! Stop it for your lives!"
[Illustration: "HE LAUNCHED HIMSELF FORWARD."--(_Page 240._)]
Prompt obedience to orders, without pausing to question them, comes so
naturally to a railroad man, that President Vanderveer himself now obeyed
this grimy-faced young fireman as readily as though their positions had
been reversed. With a quick movement he touched a button at one side of
the car, and instantly a clear-voiced electric bell, in the cab of the
locomotive that was dragging his train toward destruction, rang out an
imperative call for brakes. The engineman's right hand sought the little
brass "air" lever as he heard the sound. With his left he shut off steam.
Ten seconds later the special stood motionless, with its pilot pointing
out over the Minkskill bridge.
President Vanderveer had not recognized the panting, coal-begrimed,
oil-stained young fireman who had so mysteriously boarded his car while it
was running at full speed; but Eltje knew his voice. Now, as her father
turned from the electric button to demand an explanation, he saw the girl
seize the stranger's hand. "It's Rod, father! It's Rodman Blake!" she
cried.
"So it is!" exclaimed the President, grasping the lad's other hand, and
scanning him closely. "But what is the matter, Rodman? How came you here?
Why have you stopped us, and what is the meaning of this disguise?"
A few words served to explain the situation.
Then the President, with Rod and the conductor of the special, left the
car, lanterns in hand, to go ahead and discover how far they were from
the treacherous bridge. As they reached the ground they were joined by
Truman Stump, who had slowed the terrific speed of his locomotive at
the moment of his fireman's leap from its pilot, and brought it to a
standstill close behind the special. In a voice trembling with emotion
the old engineman said:
"It was the finest thing I've seen done in thirty years of running, Rod,
and I thank God for your nerve."
A minute later, when President Vanderveer realized the full extent of the
threatened danger, and the narrowness of their escape, he again held the
young fireman's hand, as he said:
"And I thank God, Rodman, not only for your nerve, but that he permitted
you to be on time. A few seconds later and our run on this line would have
been ended forever."
After a short consultation it was decided that the special should remain
where it was, while locomotive number 10 should run back to the station,
where its train still waited, bearing a message to be telegraphed to the
nearest gang of bridge carpenters.
How different was that backward ride from the mad, breathless race, with
all its dreadful uncertainties, that Truman Stump and Rod Blake had just
made over the same track. How silent they had been then, and how they
talked now. How cheerily their whistle sounded as they approached the
station! How lustily Rod pulled at the bell-rope, that the glad tidings
of number 10's glorious run might the sooner be guessed by the anxious
watchers, who awaited their coming. What an eager throng gathered round
the old locomotive as it rolled proudly up to the station. It almost
seemed conscious of having performed a splendid deed. Long afterwards, in
cab and caboose, or wherever the men of the N. Y. and W. road gathered,
all fast time was compared with the great run made by number 10 on that
memorable night.
The storm had passed and the moon was shining when the station was
reached. Already men were at work repairing the telegraph line, and an
hour later a bridge gang, with a train of timber-laden flats, was on its
way to the Minkskill bridge. Number 10 drew this train, and Rod was
delighted to have this opportunity to learn something of bridge building.
He was glad, too, to escape from the praises of the railroad men; for
Truman Stump insisted on telling the story of his young fireman's brave
deed to each new crew as it reached the station, and they were equally
determined to make a hero of him.