Bob picked up the paper and scanned the headlines on the first page, but there was nothing recorded in the news there that drew his attention and he turned to the sports page, where football dope stories could be found plentifully, for Bob liked nothing better in the sports world than a good football game. The train conductor came in and sat down. “It’s a bad night,” he said, looking at the curtain of rain which swept the windows. “We’ll be late getting into Jacksonville. A message at the junction back there gave us a lot of slow orders where the track is going bad ahead of us.” “The rain must be worse farther south,” said Bob. “It’s nearly a cloudburst in some places. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find a bridge washed out and get hung up for hours.” The conductor was silent for a minute. Then he added, “I can’t figure out where that fellow in lower nine went. Seems impossible that he could have fallen off the train, yet he isn’t here.” “I’m just as puzzled as you are,” admitted Bob, “but I have a feeling that no harm has come to him. I sized him up as a fellow pretty well able to take care of himself.” “I don’t recall seeing him,” said the train conductor, “for the Pullman conductor handles this end of the Limited. Well, I’ve more reports to get ready.” He got to his feet and started for the door. The Limited lurched heavily and the conductor was thrown back against Bob. “There we go!” he cried. “The track’s gone out from under us.” The car was weaving and lurching as the wheels screamed in the grip of powerful air brakes, but the rhythmic clack of the trucks told them they were still on the rails. The conductor hoisted himself to his feet and Bob followed him in a dash for the vestibule. “That blamed engineer almost shook us to pieces,” groaned the conductor as he threw open the top half of the vestibule door and peered out. Bob, looking over his shoulder, could see a red glare that penetrated even the brilliance of the locomotive’s headlight. “Someone’s swinging a fuse against us,” said the conductor, buttoning up his slicker. “I’m going ahead.” Bob ran back into the Pullman and got his own coat. Tully, who was awake now, wanted to know what it was all about. “An emergency stop of some kind,” said Bob. “I’ll be back soon.” By the time he was back in the vestibule the Limited was grinding to a stop and Bob swung down behind the conductor, the two running ahead alongside the train as rapidly as they could in the darkness. The Southern had been flagged at a lonely way station where it seldom if ever made a stop, and the engineer, who was leaning from his cab, bawled lustily at them. “Find out what that hick agent means by flagging us down,” he shouted. “We’ve got to get rolling again. We’re 23 minutes late.” The agent, the red fuse still in his hands, came toward them and Bob caught a glimpse of a telegram in one hand.