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
