No. 999 was steamed up quickly. Ralph put the cab in rapid order for a hard run. The foreman hurried back to his office and telephoned to the yards. When No. 999 ran out on the turntable it was the foreman himself who opened the ponderous outside doors. "It's some weather," observed Fogg, as the giant locomotive swung out into the heart of a driving tempest. The foreman directed their movements to a track where a plug engine had just backed in with a light caboose car. There was no air brake attachment and the coupling was done quickly. "All ready," reported Ralph, as Mr. Grant came up with the division superintendent. The railroad president stepped to the platform of the caboose, spoke a few words to his recent companion in parting, and waved his hand signal-like for the start. Fogg had been over the Shelby division several times, only once, however, on duty. He knew its "bad spots," and he tried to tell his engineer about them as they steamed off the main track. "There's just three stations the whole stretch," he reported, "and the tracks are clear--that's one good point." "Yes, it is only obstruction and breakdowns we have to look out for," said Ralph. "Give us plenty of steam, Mr. Fogg." "There's heaps of fuel--a good six tons," spoke the fireman. "My! but the stack pulls like a blast furnace." The cab curtains were closely fastened. It was a terrible night. The snow came in sheets like birdshot, a half-sleet that stung like hail as it cut 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 the tracks near there, and the operator beyond says it will be a blockade if the dam breaks." "Are you willing to risk it?" inquired the official. "That's what we are here for," asserted Ralph. "Then don't delay." "It's getting worse and worse!" exclaimed Fogg, after a half-hour's further running.