Had he come fast enough?... Ages passed. He lifted his head and looked back up the long tracks. The freight was still backing in slowly. The special--like an old lady who has taken the wrong crossing--was emitting a sound of dismay, a quick, high note. The wheels reversed and she came back, puffing and complaining, in little jerks. When the train halted Simeon Tetlow stepped down from the platform. His hand, as it left the iron rail, trembled a little. He thrust it into the pocket of his light coat, looking up and down the tracks with stern glance. The glance fell upon John mopping his brow. The president of the road moved toward him slowly. “What ’s up?” It was short and sharp. John waited a minute while he mopped his brow again and replaced the handkerchief. He was thinking fast--for two. “I--I wanted to see you, sir.” One glance at the man had told him everything--the shaking hand clinched in the pocket, the quivering nerves, the dusty journey, the anxiety and fierce need of help. One more shock and the tension would give way. “I wanted to see you, sir,” he repeated quietly. Simeon was looking at him keenly, up and down. “So you stopped my special?” John nodded. “Yes, I stopped it--I guess I stopped it.” His voice almost laughed at the words. He was tugging at something in his pocket. “I wanted to give you these, sir.” He had fished out the handful of papers--old envelopes, scraps, bits of newspaper margins--covered with writing and figures. “I was down there this morning--to the wreck,” he said quickly. “Things were pretty well mixed up--I thought you might like to see how they lay. I made some notes.” “Ah-h!” It was a long-drawn breath-something between a snarl and a laugh. “Come inside.” They went into the special, with her hideous decorations of plush and imitation leather. The president nodded to the seat beside a table covered with telegrams and newspapers and memoranda: “Sit down.” He seated himself opposite the boy, his elbow on the table and his head resting on the hand. Beneath its shelter his swift eyes looked out, scanning the boy’s face. “Well!” It was sharp and quick. The boy smiled at the familiar note. He ran over the papers in his fingers, selecting one near the bottom. “This is the way things lay when we got there. We were first on the ground. I had a good chance to see,” he said simply. “I ’ll warrant.” Simeon growled a little, leaning toward it. The boy moved nearer to him. “These are the sleepers--the freight lay this way, over to the left. They must have struck just as the last car left the bridge.” “I see.” Simeon reached out a hand for the paper. It trembled mistily as he bent above it. “I see.” The tone held a note of satisfaction. “What else?” He looked up quickly. John was sorting the papers, a half-smile on his slow lips. A sense of happiness held his stubby fingers.