Allan did his best to force himself to eat, but the strangeness of the hour and the excitement of the promised adventure took all desire for food from him. He managed, however, to drink a cup of coffee, but his hands were trembling so with excitement he could scarcely hold the cup. It was a wreck, and a bad one. How terrible to lose a moment! He was eager to be off. But Jack knew from experience the value and need of food while it could be obtained, in view of what might be before them. “It’ll take ’em some time t’ git’ th’ wreckin’-train ready,” he said. “Git our waterproofs, Mary.” But Mary had them waiting, as well as a lot of sandwiches. She had been through such scenes before. “There, stuff your pockets full,” she said to Allan. “You’ll want ’em.” Jack nodded assent, and took his share. “And now, good-bye, Mary,” said Jack. “No, don’t wake the baby. If we git back by t’-morrer night, we’ll be lucky. Come on, Allan.” The snow was still falling heavily as they left the house, and they made their way with some difficulty to the corner of the yards where the wrecking-train stood on its spur of siding. A score of section-men had already gathered, and more were coming up every minute. Nobody knew anything definite about the wreck—some one had heard that Bill Miller, the engineer, was hurt. It seemed they were taking a doctor along, for Allan saw his tall form in the uncertain light. And the train-master and division superintendent were with him, talking together in low tones. Jack began checking off his men as they came up and reported. An engine backed up and coupled on to the wrecking-train, and the men slowly clambered aboard. The switch at the end of the siding was opened. “How many men have you got, Welsh?” asked Mr. Schofield, the train-master. “Thirty-six, so far, sir.” “All right. We’ll pick up the gangs on Twenty-three and four as we pass. Go ahead,” he shouted to the engineer. “We’ve got a clear track to Vinton,” and he followed Allan and Jack up the steps into the car. There was a hiss of steam into the cylinders and the train pulled slowly out upon the main track, the wheels slipping over the rails at first, but gripping better as the train gathered headway and shot eastward into the whirling snow. Operators, switchmen, station-agents, flagmen, all looked out to see it pass. It had only two cars—one, a long flat car loaded with ties and rails, piled with ropes and jacks and crowbars. At one end stood the heavy steel derrick, strong enough to lift even a great mogul of a freight-engine and swing it clear of the track. In the other car, which looked very much like an overgrown box-car, was the powerful donkey-engine which worked the derrick, more tools, a cooking-stove, and a number of narrow cots. Two oil-lanterns swung from the roof, half-illuminating the faces of the men, who sat along the edges of the cots, talking together in low tones.