The locomotive was at top speed once more. Around a curve it tore, listing far to one side. Straight ahead, through the gray murk, rose the trestled bridge--a blur of brownish-red, spanning a hundred foot drop; at whose bottom boiled a froth of white fretted water cut here and there by black lump-head boulders. “Slow to 10 miles an Hour!” read the patch of signboard at the bridge’s head. At either side of the railroad embankment stood knots of country folk, idly watching the condemned framework. At sixty miles an hour the locomotive swept into the straightaway. A scattering chorus of cries rose from a dozen lips as the shadowy giant bulk leaped out of the mist. Then, in the same instant, the dull rumble of wheels on a ground track was changed to the hollow roaring roll of wheels on a trestle. A jar of impact--a sickening sway of the whole wood-and-steel structure--a snapping, rending sound from somewhere far below--a wind-borne scream from the group of panic-stricken idlers now a furlong behind;--and once more the changed key of the driving-wheels’ song told that the flimsy bridgeway was succeeded by solid roadbed beneath the rails. “Scared?” asked Conover, over his shoulder, to the fireman. “I’ve just been too near to death to feel like lying,” returned the man in a sickly attempt at humor, “So I might as well own up that for a second or so I could hear a few harps twanging. My heart’s still somewhere around the place where I swallow.” “You’ve got grit,” vouchsafed the Fighter, straining his eyes to pierce through the mist in front of them, “Man’s made of dust, the parsons say; but I guess there was plenty of sand sprinkled in yours an’ mine. An’ I like you better for not bein’ ashamed to tell you was afraid. The brave man ain’t the one who don’t get scared; he’s the feller who’s scared stiff and goes ahead just the same. I guess I’ll have to change that new job of yours from pass’nger engineer to somethin’ in my own office. Now, chase back to your work. I’ve got other things to think of besides jawin’ with you.” The Junction was reached and passed. No longer on his own road, Conover was less certain that the way would be left clear for him. Yet his telegrams had had effect. The line was open, and he sent his locomotive along with no let-up in its terrific speed. “I’ll make it,” he said once, under his breath. “If Bourke can only hold ’em--if he can only hold ’em!” Over went the lever, and with another shrill shriek the engine slackened speed. They had rounded a bend. Directly in front was a station. Beside it stood a long train, blocking the single track. In a bound, Conover was out of the cab. Shouting to the fireman to follow, he set off at a run through the mud puddles that lined the right of way. “Whatcher stoppin’ for?” he demanded of the conductor who stood by one of the rear cars.