“The operator at Baker’s just called me up, sir,” he gasped, “to report that second Ninety-seven ran through there, going forty miles an hour, and that the engineer dropped a message tied to a wrench saying his throttle-valve had stuck, and his brakes wouldn’t work, and that he couldn’t stop his engine!” The superintendent started to his feet, his face livid. “They’ll be here in eight minutes,” he said. “Where’s Number Four?” “Just past Roxabel. We can’t catch her, and the freight will run into her sure if we let it through the yards.” “We won’t let it through the yards,” said the superintendent, and went down the stairs three steps at a time, and sped away in the direction of the coal-chute. He had reflected rapidly that if the freight could be derailed at the long switch just below the chute, it could be run into a gravel bank, where it would do much less damage than farther up in the yards, among the network of switches there. He ran his swiftest, but as he reached the chute, he heard, far down the track, the roar of the approaching train. Evidently it was not yet under control. Reddy Magraw heard the roar, too, and straightened up in amazement. Why should a freight approach the yards at that speed? Then he saw the superintendent tugging madly at the switch. “Thet switch won’t work, sir,” he said. “A yard ingine hit the p’int about an hour ago an’ jammed it.” “Won’t work!” echoed the superintendent, and stared blankly down the track at the train which every second was whirling nearer. “Is it a runaway?” asked Reddy, suddenly understanding. “Yes,—a runaway,—maybe I can make the other switch,” and he started away, but Reddy caught him by the arm. “Wait, sir,” he cried; “wait. We’ll fix ’em—throw ’em on to th’ chute.” “On to the chute?” “Yes, on to th’ chute. Throw th’ switch there,” and Reddy, grabbing up two big cans of oil, started for the track leading to the long ascent. Then the superintendent understood, and, with a gasp of relief, ran to the switch and threw it. Up the steep ascent ran Reddy, a can in either hand, spurting streams of oil upon the rails—up and up—yet it seemed that he must certainly be caught and hurled to death, for a moment later the great freight-engine reached the structure, which groaned and trembled under this unaccustomed weight. Up the incline it mounted, the weight of the train behind it urging it on. Half-way up, two-thirds, almost upon Reddy, where he bent over the rails, a can in either hand, never pausing to look back.