“Indeed?” rejoined his friend, with a curious look at Ralph. “Suppose you were pulling this train?” “Humph! Think I would be any better than an experienced old engineer like By? What nonsense, Mr. Adair!” But the latter only laughed. They were at the head of the train. There was a little group of station employees and others on the platform. Ralph was watching the slowly backing locomotive. He saw the pallid face of Marks thrust out of the window as the great machine backed against the head coach. The red spots in Mark’s cheeks, Ralph thought, were slowly fading out. The couplings came together with a crunch of steel. The locomotive was stopped on the instant—a pretty connection. Nobody but a skilled operative could have done it. “He’s all right, old as he is!” muttered Ralph, as the two firemen leaped down to make the air-hose and water-hose connections on either side of the tender. The train dispatcher walked forward on the engineer’s side of the cab. He looked up again at the old man in the window. Then he cried out and leaped up the steps to the locomotive’s deck. Byron Marks’ head had fallen upon the window sill. His eyes were still staring, wide open. But the color had now entirely receded from his cheeks. When Ralph put a tentative hand upon the old man’s shoulder the torso of his body wabbled dreadfully. The hand on the throttle relaxed and fell. At the instant the engineer had made the nicely balanced coupling, he had lost consciousness! CHAPTER XV ONCE MORE ON THE RAILS The doctor, who had been brought from just across the street from the station, pronounced it “heart.” Either over-excitement or over-work. It was no accident; just a death from natural causes. Then, thought Ralph, how about the big accident policy Byron Marks had carried and paid on all these years? But at just this moment there were other matters of importance to think of. Supervisor Hopkins had at once bustled out to see what had happened. In five minutes the Midnight Flyer was scheduled to pull out of the Rockton terminal. “Here, boy!” he said, grabbing one of the youngsters who called the crews from their boarding houses. “Let’s see your list. What! Nothing but freight crews?” “And there ain’t one of ’em but has put in twelve hours and has got to take his eight hours’ sleep,” said the boy. “They’d half kill me if I tried to pry ’em out of the hay.” “Wait until your advice is called for, boy,” responded Mr. Hopkins shortly. The boy winked behind the supervisor’s back and some of the bystanders chuckled. The supervisor pored over the list. “Not a passenger engine crew free until two-thirty.” “And then,” pointed out the night station master, who had likewise appeared, “that crew must take out Number Fourteen.” “I want none of _your_ advice, Cummings,” snapped the supervisor. But Cummings was a gray-haired official and not easily browbeaten.