“It was just about here,” said a rough voice he seemed to recognize. “I caught a glint of a red light an’ then it went out. I was watchin’ fer the track-walker, y’ know, an’ I was sure that was him.” “Flash o’ lightnin’, most likely,” came in a hoarse undertone from another. Allan heard the newcomers grope about, as he cowered close to the rock, his heart beating fiercely as he expected each moment to feel a hand upon him. “Y’ see they ain’t nobody here,” said the first speaker, at last. “Yes,” assented the other, uncertainly. “But he’s about due, if he’s comin’.” “I dunno,” protested the other. “Y’d better not bank on that.” “I ain’t a-bankin’ on it!” retorted his companion, impatiently. “You’re goin’ t’ keep a lookout, ain’t you? Now I’ll go on back an’ you stay right here. You kin see a long stretch down th’ track from here, so they can’t surprise us. If they’s more’n one, warn us,—maybe they’ve put on a double guard t’-night,—but, if they’s only one, wait here behind this rock, an’ when he comes past, do fer him—’specially if it’s Welsh ’r th’ kid. It’s about time we was gittin’ even!” Allan’s heart leaped. He knew the voice now—there was no mistaking—it was Nolan’s! Nolan started back toward the trestle through the storm and was lost to sight instantly, while the sentry sat down upon a rock to watch the track, whistling to himself, as though train-wrecking were the most ordinary thing in the world. But Allan was thinking only of one thing—he must get past that man on the rock, he must cross the ravine, he must flag the train. That was his duty lying clear before him. Danger? Yes,—but which of his comrades would stop to think of that? Yet he must be careful,—not for his own sake, but for the sake of those who were speeding toward this peril. He must run no risk of failure, for their lives depended upon him—upon his coolness, his foresight, his quickness. And whatever he did must be done at once. He gripped his hands together to still their trembling. Come,—this was no time for weakness. He must prove himself a man! He must prove himself worthy the service of the road! He could not climb the well-nigh perpendicular side of the cut; to go back and work his way over the hill would require too much time—and there was not a moment to be lost. The only thing to do, then, was to go forward. He drew a deep breath; then he tucked his lantern snugly under his left arm, grasped his club firmly, and moved forward cautiously, hugging the side of the cut, his eyes on the sentry. Once he stumbled heavily over some obstruction, but the storm covered the noise, and the sentry made no sign that he had heard, but sat twirling a heavy stick and looking down the track. Hope began to revive in the boy’s breast; perhaps he might be able to steal past unseen. Lower and lower he crouched; slow and more slowly he moved; he was almost past—almost past—