His eyes blazed with excitement as he watched the scene before him and listened to the hoarse shouts of the men, the crash of pick and ax, and, above it all, the sharp crackle of the fire as the flames, growing in volume, bit deeper and deeper into the wreck. Fiercely as the men fought, the fire, with its long start, kept them from making any headway against it. Already it had reached some of the cars standing on the track. From where Bunty stood he could see the track dipping away in a long grade to the valley below. They called that grade the Devil’s Slide, and the wreck was on the edge of it, with the caboose and some half-dozen cars still resting on the incline. As he looked, far below him he saw a trail of smoke. It was Number Two climbing the grade. By this time the excitement of his surroundings had worn off a little, and the arrival of the Limited offered a new attraction. He clambered down from his perch and began to pick his way past the wreck. Flannagan, begrimed and dirty, was talking to Emmons. “I don’t like to do it,” Bunty heard Flannagan say, “but we’ll have to blow up that box-car if we can’t stop the fire any other way, or we’ll have a blaze down the whole line. The train crew says there’s turpentine--two cars of it--next the flat there, and if that catches--Hi, there, kid,” he broke off to yell, as he caught sight of Bunty, “you get back to the tool-car, and stay there!” And Bunty ran--in the other direction. He knew Number Two would stop a little the other side of the wreck, and that there would be a great big ten-wheeler pulling her, all as bright as a new dollar and glistening in paint and gold-leaf. When he pulled up breathless and happy by the side of Number Two, Masters, the engineer, was giving Engine 901 an oil round, touching the journals critically with the back of his hand as he moved along. At sight of Bunty, the engineer laid his oil-can on the slide-bars and grinned as he extended his hand. “How are you, Bunty?” he asked. And Bunty, accepting the proffered hand, replied gravely: “I’m pretty well, Mr. Masters, thank you.” “Glad to hear it, Bunty. How did you get here?” “I comed up with the wrecker-train. It’s a’ awful smash.” “Is it, now! Think they’ll have the line cleared soon?” “Oh, no,” Bunty replied, eyeing the cab of the big engine wistfully. “Not for ever and ever so long.” Masters’ eyes followed Bunty’s glance. “Want to get up in the cab, Bunty?” “Oh, please!” Bunty cried breathlessly. “All right,” said Masters, boosting the lad through the gangway. Then warningly: “Don’t touch anything.” And Bunty promised.