That's the only thing that will ever help him—time. I know you're pretty fond of Coogan, even more than the rest of us and that's saying a good deal, but you're thinking too much about it yourself."
Regan shook his head.
"I can't help it, Carleton. It's got me. Time, and that sort of thing, may be all right, but it ain't very promising when a man broods the way he does. I ain't superstitious or anything like that, but I've a feeling I can't just explain that somehow something's going to break. Kind of premonition. Ever have anything like that? It gets on your mind and you can't shake it off. It's on me to-night worse than it's ever been."
"Nonsense," Carleton laughed. "Premonitions are out of date, because they've been traced back to their origin. Out here, I should say it was a case of too much of Dutchy's lunch-counter pie. You ought to diet anyway, Tommy, you're getting too fat. Hand over that fine-cut of yours, I"
He stopped as a sharp cry came from the dispatcher's room, followed by an instant's silence, then the crash of a chair sounded as, hastily pushed back, it fell to the floor. Quick steps echoed across the room, and the next moment Spence, with a white face and holding a sheet of tissue in his hand, burst in upon them.
Carleton sprang to his feet.
"What's the matter, Spence?" he demanded sharply.
"Number One," the dispatcher jerked out, and extended the sheet on which he had scribbled the message as it came in off the sounder.
