TO THE RESCUE
But if the journey downward called for caution, the climb back made
care even more imperative. Jeff had to hope that each timber he stepped
upon would bear double his own weight. He had literally to feel every
step of the way.
And to add to the terrors of the situation, smoke was drawing through
the wreckage now in veritable gusts, and Jeff could hear the roaring
crackle of the fire close at hand. Indeed the atmosphere down there
between the timbers was hot and choking with gas and smoke. He was
tired, too. Almost exhausted. Every step upward was an effort. His head
bothered him. It seemed too heavy for his shoulders, and there was a
strange buzzing sound inside. He wondered vaguely whether he was going
to collapse himself. He realized with a sense of horror that if he did
he would be burned to death in ten minutes. That thought seemed to
clear his head for a moment, and he climbed more hastily and with less
caution, trusting entirely to good fortune that he did not dislodge
any of the wreckage. Upward he struggled. Presently he found himself
once more directly underneath the tottering truck with its heavy iron
wheels. The opening was just above him. He saw eager hands reaching
downward through it. He wondered vaguely, whether the man he carried
was too big to get through the opening. He hoped not.
Somehow he stood upright and lifted the limp form toward the hands that
grasped through the hole. Then his burden was lifted out of his arms
and he saw the apparently lifeless body with its grotesquely dangling
legs moved slowly upward through the hole and disappear from view. The
hands reached downward again and he reached up to meet them. A moment
he stood there, and tried to master himself. His head was spinning, his
eyes hurt and his lungs seemed bursting for the want of fresh air. He
tried to think that the ordeal was nearly over; that in just a minute
he would be out into the cool night once more where he could gulp down
great lungfuls of pure air. He exerted every bit of will power he had
to master himself, for somehow he knew he was slipping, that he was
fainting, that he was on the verge of collapse down there underneath
the heavy up-ended railroad truck. And he knew that if he did collapse
no help could save him from a certain and horrible death.
In a frantic effort he reached still higher toward the opening. Cold
hands touched his, slipped off, then touched again. One clamped heavily
about his wrist, another reached downward and fastened onto his sleeve.
He felt himself lifted upward. Then he knew no more.
* * * * *
Jeff Thatcher came to with the feeling that there was something urgent
he wanted to do, something he must do before he could rest quietly. He
opened his eyes and looked about and after a moment he realized that he
was lying on one of the bunks in the wrecking train caboose.
Hastily he sat up and looked about. Across the car in another bunk he
saw another man lying under blankets, his white face turned toward him
and heavy eyes watching him. There was something hauntingly familiar
about the face.
The stranger spoke.
“You all right now? Feeling better?”
“I’m all right, thank you. And you?”
“I’m done for, I guess. It’s too bad you went to the trouble and risk
of saving me. I’m going to pass out anyway. Something wrong inside my
chest. But I’d rather die here than be burned to death down there. It
was a heroic thing you did, boy. They told me all about it.”
“It was nothing. I mean I――I――just had to do it. It was my job. Say,
haven’t I seen you before? Haven’t I――say, I know who you are. You’re
Roderick Hammond, the――the――cashier of the First National.”
“Know me, ’eh, in spite of my week’s growth of whiskers and my attempt
to look like a hobo. Well, you’re right, old boy. I’m the absconding
bank cashier, and the bonds are right here inside the lining of my
coat. You better take them and return them to the bank for me, will
you? And if there’s any reward you take it. I played in good luck up
until to-night. I’ve been hiding right under the nose of the police and
newspaper reporters in New City for a month. Why I chose to-night to
try and get away I don’t know, and why I decided to ride the bumpers
of that particular fast freight I can’t guess. I suppose it’s one of
Fate’s little jokers. Let me go just so far and then――bing, and it’s
all off. I won’t be alive in twenty-four hours from now, boy. I think a
rib or two has punctured my lungs, so I want you to have all the glory
of returning the bonds and telling the story. I――”
Jeff jumped down from the bunk with a start. Now he knew what the
urgent thing was he had to do. Find a telephone and call up Boss
Russell.
“Wait a while. I’ll be back. Got to find a ’phone and get this all in
to the _Freeman_,” he said to Hammond. Then, finding his overcoat which
had been thrown over him as he lay in the bunk, he slipped into it and
hurried out of the deserted caboose.
The first person he met was Tracy, the conductor of the wrecked freight.
“There’s a signal tower about a mile down the track. That’s where I
telephoned about the wreck from,” he answered to Jeff’s query and Jeff,
fatigue forgotten, started on a run down the track toward the blinking
red and green light which he knew was the tower.
“Where in time have you been? It’s three o’clock and the first edition
is on the press,” roared Boss Russell when he recognized Jeff’s voice
over the telephone.
“I――I――why――” and then Jeff told him everything in a wild burst of
language.
“Great guns! You don’t mean it. Wait――wait till I stop the presses.
Here, you give that dope to Sullivan, the rewrite man. He’ll put it in
type. What?”
“Why――why――Aw say, Boss, can’t I write the story?” asked Jeff.
“Write the story! Why, boy, that story will be in type and on the
street before you get started back from the wreck. You write the yarn
about the three-legged calf if you have time, but stick on the job at
the wreck there and come home with the crew. And to-morrow night I’ll
give you the choice of any assignment you want. That’s a good kid.
Good-night.”