Toward the latest of many brown wooden stations they flashed. The engineer threw over a lever. The wheels shrieked ear-splitting protest as they gripped and shaved the rails in the shock of the brake’s clutch. “What’s up?” bellowed Conover, wrathfully. “Is--?” “Station agent’s flagging us, sir, with the danger signal,” replied the engineer, leaning out into the rain to accost a scared, shirtsleeved man who ran toward them, flag in hand, along the track. Conover pulled the engineer to one side and thrust his own head from the cab window, just as the panting station agent came up. “What d’ye mean by stoppin’ us?” demanded the Fighter. “Trackwalker reports--bridge--mile above--unsafe,--from washout!” puffed the agent. “He does, hey?” sneered Conover, “An’ why in blazes didn’t you telegraph the next station below?” “I was just going to, sir,” faltered the agent, “but as there wasn’t any train due for an half an hour--” “Is the bridge still standin’?” demanded Conover. “Yes, sir. But the trackwalker thinks--” “I don’t pay him to think. _I’m_ doin’ the thinkin’ this trip. Davis,” wheeling on the engineer, “I’m goin’ over this bridge. There’s $500 on the other side of it for _you_. Want to come? Speak up quick!” “If--if it’s not safe--” hesitated the man. “This is the heaviest engine on the road and--” “Get out of here, then!” yelled Conover, ejecting him bodily from the cab. The engineer missed the step and tumbled prone in a blasphemous heap, to the wet track side. Conover did not waste a second look at him, but slipped into the driver’s place and threw off the brake. He had served his term as engineer during his upward flight through the various grades of railroad achievement; and was as comfortably at home at the throttle as in his private car. The wheels caught the track and the great mass of metal sprang into motion. “Is there anything else _I_ can do, sir?” piped the obsequious agent. “No!” snarled Caleb glowering back at him through the open window. “If there was, you wouldn’t be a measly thirty-dollar-a-month station roustabout.” Settling into his place, Conover knit his red brows and peered forward through the downpour and mist, along the shining track. He could not afford the time he had lost. To make it up, every notch of speed must be crowded on. There was a fierce exhilaration in Caleb’s alert light eyes, as he set himself to his new task. The fireman, who had been crouching on the tender, now worked his way forward into the cab. “Hello!” grunted Conover, crossly. “I’d forgot _you_. I s’pose I got to slow up while you jump.” “If I was a jumper, sir,” replied the fireman, quietly, “I’d have gotten off at the station.” With stolid unconcern the fellow set about stoking. Conover grinned. “If we live past that bridge,” he remarked, “You’ll make your next trip as pass’nger engineer. Steady, now.”