Ralph on the Overland Express/28
CHAPTER XXVIII
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 of 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.