They made such a fire of dry brush and driftwood that when the Midnight Express came round the curve at Hagler’s tank the engineer thought the bridge was burning, and shut off. But a moment later little Jack was at the end of the bridge moving the white light up and down, as he had seen his father do, and the driver opened the throttle again. Despite the fact that Tommy was close behind him, the timid boy began to tremble and draw back as the headlight glared in his face. Tommy seized the signal lamp and stood smiling in the face of the driver as the great engine struck the bridge and roared past, shaking the earth for rods around. Away the wild steed went, out toward the morning. She had started fresh and clean from the Mississippi, she would slake, for a brief moment, her burning thirst at the Ambraw, and at dawn drink of the waters of the Wabash. When the red lights on the rear of the flying train had drawn close together and finally dropped over the bridge, Tommy turned to find little Jack crouching at the door of the shanty. “’Smatter uv you, Jack Connor?” demanded the freckled boy. “Guess I better tie you under th’ bridge till yo’ git ust to the cars.” They put the white light down on the floor, and began to practise their writing lesson; learning to write their names so they could sign the pay rolls when the car came up the road again. Tommy started to sing, “The Hat Me Father Wore,” but remembering suddenly that this was the only song Jimmie Connor had ever tried to sing, he changed off to “Jerry Ile the Kayre,”-- “Wid a big soljer coat Buttoned up to me troat, All danger I would dare Thin jint ahead an’ cinter back; Oh! Jerry go ile th’ Kayre.” But try as he would Tommy could not keep the clouds away from the face of his friend. The poor lad seemed half dazed by the dreadful scenes through which he had passed. It was nearly morning. The bonfire had burned down to gray ashes, and the boys were sleepy. Tommy took the red light, shook it, and turned it up. A lost dog over by the saw-mill set up that awful unearthly howl that boys are wont to connect in some way with abandoned farms and funerals. A hoot-owl hooted on the top of the tank, and little Jack began to cry. CHAPTER IV THE FLOOD