Carleton snatched the paper, and Regan, leaping from his chair, looked over his shoulder.
"Number One, engine 505, jumped track east of switch-back number two in Devil's Slide. Report three known to be killed, others missing. Engineer Coogan and fireman Dahleen both hurt," they read.
Carleton was ever the man of action, and his voice rang hard as chilled steel.
"Clear the line, Spence. Get your relief and wrecker out at once. Wire Dreamer Butte for their wrecker as well, so they can work from both ends. Now then, Tommy—my God, what's the matter with you, are you crazy?"
Regan was leaning over the back of his chair, his face strained, his arm outstretched, finger pointing to the wall.
"I knew it," he muttered hoarsely. "I knew it. That's what it is."
Carleton's eyes traveled from the master mechanic to the wall and back again in amazed bewilderment, then he shook Regan by the shoulder.
"That's what, what is?" he questioned brusquely. "Are you mad, man?"
"The date," whispered Regan, still pointing to where a large single-day calendar with big figures on it hung behind the super's desk. "It's the twenty-eighth."
"I don't know what you mean, Tommy,"—Carleton's voice was quiet, restrained.
"Mean!" Regan burst out, with a hard laugh. "I don't mean anything, do I? 'Tain't anything to do
