The installing of a new time-card is not so simple a thing as one might imagine. For that one night, every engineer and conductor has to bear in mind two schedules, the old one and the new one. For, though the new one goes into effect, technically, at midnight, it is, of course, impossible that it should do so in reality. A train, for instance, which started under the old schedule at 10.50 P. M. and which, under the new one, would start fifteen or twenty minutes earlier, could not, once it was out on the road, make up that time, so it was compelled to run by the old schedule until it had finished its trip, even though that carried it over the time after which the new schedule went into effect. In other words, every train which was on the road at midnight, must continue under the old schedule until it reached its destination.

So that night was always one of anxiety. Trainmen, who often get mixed on a single schedule, are only too likely to do so on a double one!

It so happened, however, that the exciting events of that night were not due to forgetfulness, but to a danger which no one could foresee or guard against, and which is, in consequence, one most feared by railroad men. And it developed the latent heroism in two men in a way which is still talked of on the rail, where these tales are passed on from mouth to mouth wherever trainmen congregate.

The night was a cold and windy one, with a swirl of snow now and then, just sufficient to obscure the slippery track ahead, and yet not dense enough to cause the engineer to abandon in despair the task of trying to see what he was driving into. As a consequence, Engineer Jim Adams, pulling first section of through freight No. 98, had strained his eyes until they ached, in the effort to descry track and signals. More than once his hand had trembled on the throttle, as he fancied he saw another headlight gleaming through the mist ahead, but which, at the last instant, resolved itself into a reflection of his own. So when an unmistakable red glow did appear there, he waited an instant and batted his eyes savagely once or twice before he threw on the brakes.

“It’s the Jones Run bridge!” yelled the front brakeman, who, perched on the fireman’s seat, had seen the glare at the same instant. “Git out o’ here!” And jumping to the floor of the cab, he balanced himself an instant in the gangway and then sprang out into the darkness.

The fireman took one look at the swirling flames ahead and followed him. Then the engineer, having set the brakes and closed the throttle, also leaped out into the darkness. But even as he leaped, he suddenly realized that the train had just impetus enough to carry it to the bridge. It would stop there, be consumed, and the loss to the company would be thousands and thousands of dollars.

By a supreme effort, he landed on his feet, and then, running a step or two, managed to catch the hand-hold on the first freight car, as it passed him. In a minute, he had clambered up the ladder, over the coal in the tender and down into the cab again, where he released the brakes, opened the throttle wide, and started on a wild run for the bridge. In an instant, the flames were around him and he felt the bridge shake and sway, but it held, and the train crossed in safety.

Meanwhile, back in the caboose, a strange scene was enacting. The brakeman and conductor, who had been cosily sleeping in their bunks, were suddenly thrown out to the floor by a terrific impact, and every loose object seemed to be hurling itself toward the front end of the car. It took a minute for them to disentangle themselves and get to their feet again. Then they made a simultaneous rush for the door, just as the brakes were released and the train jerked forward again. The conductor opened the door and started to put his head out to see what was the matter, when he suddenly found himself surrounded by a swirl of flame.

“Gosh all whittaker!” he yelled, and slammed the door shut again. Then he jumped for the box of fusees which every caboose carries.

The brakeman, who was green, was too frightened even to be interested. Otherwise he would have seen the conductor jerk out two fusees, and then, opening the door again, drop off the train just as it cleared the bridge. He scrambled down the bank, and, holding the fusees high over his head, plunged into the icy water without an instant’s hesitation, and then, stopping only to light one of the fusees at a glowing ember, raced wildly away down the track, waving it above his head. For he had remembered the second section following close behind; he knew that the bridge would be so weakened that another train could not cross it; feared that, in the swirling snow, the engineer might not see the flames until too late; and instantly took the only effective means to stop the oncoming train.

Stop it he did, of course, and after making sure the bridge could not be saved, both trains flagged their way to the nearest stations to give word of the disaster. Ten hours later, a temporary bridge replaced the old one, and traffic was running as usual.

An investigation of the cause of the fire followed a few days later, but nothing definite concerning it could be discovered. It might have started, as so many do, from ashes dropped from the fire-box of a passing train; or it might have been set on fire by tramps, either by accident or design. Orders were at once sent in for an iron bridge to replace the wooden one, so that a repetition of the accident would be impossible.

One thing, however, resulted from the investigation—the indication of possible carelessness on the part of another engineer. Half an hour before the first section of ninety-eight had passed, the evening accommodation had crossed the bridge. It seemed impossible that the fire should have got such a headway in that time, and the presumption strongly was that the bridge was on fire when the passenger train crossed it, and that the engineer was not attending to his duties, or he would have seen it. The fireman, engaged in shovelling coal into the fire-box, and blinded by the glare of the flames, would probably not have noticed it, and on a passenger train no brakeman rides in the cab; but it could not have escaped the eyes of the engineer if he had been watching the tracks. It was, of course, possible that he had seen it, but had not stopped his train or given warning through some motive of hate or personal revenge; and inquiry, indeed, developed the fact that there was a bitter quarrel of long standing between him and Jim Adams, the engineer of first ninety-eight—but this may have been merely a coincidence.

At any rate, Mr. Plumfield hesitated to think that any man would have passed the fire from such a motive, and preferred to believe that the engineer of the accommodation had merely been remiss. The engineer, a burly fellow named Rafe Bassett, stoutly denied that this was the case, and declared that he had noticed the bridge especially and that it was all right.

Something in his demeanour, however, aroused Mr. Plumfield’s suspicions. Bassett was perhaps a trifle too emphatic in his denials. At any rate, he was suspended without pay.

The day after this happened, Mr. Schofield paused beside the train master’s desk.

“What was the trouble with Bassett, George?” he asked.

“Well, I can’t say, exactly,” answered Mr. Plumfield. “But he struck me as being not altogether on the square. You know he’s been in trouble before,” and he brought out the little red book.

Mr. Schofield nodded.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’m afraid this is going to make trouble,” he added, after a moment. “You know Bassett is a great brotherhood man, and is one of those big-mouthed agitators who are always talking about the wrongs of labour. His lodge is calling a special meeting to-night to consider his case.”

“Is it?” asked Mr. Plumfield, grimly. “Well, I suppose there’ll be a grievance committee to wait on me in the morning.”

And there was. Scarcely had he seated himself at his desk next day, when three engineers, cap in hand, appeared at the door and requested an audience.

“All right, boys; come in,” said the train master. “What’s the trouble?”

“It’s about Bassett,” explained the spokesman. “He’s laid off, I hear.”

“Yes,” said the train master. “Laid off till further notice.”

“What for?” asked the spokesman.

Mr. Plumfield hesitated. It was rather difficult to formulate the charge against Bassett.

“For knowing more about the burning of the Jones Run bridge the other night than he’s willing to tell.”

“Do you mean he set it on fire?” inquired one of the men, incredulously.

“Oh, no; but I think he ran past it after it was on fire and didn’t stop to put it out, as he should have done.”

“Does Bassett admit it?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why should he run past the fire?”

“Maybe he was asleep and didn’t see it.”

“And have you any evidence?”

“None but his manner,” answered Mr. Plumfield frankly.

“Well,” said the spokesman, twirling his cap in his hands, “all I can say is that that’s mighty poor evidence, it seems to me. We had a meetin’ at the lodge last night, and we was appointed a committee to see you and demand that Bassett be reinstated at once.”

“All right,” said Mr. Plumfield, “I’ll consider it.”

“And when can we have our answer?”

“This afternoon at three o’clock,” answered the train master sharply.

“All right, sir,” said the spokesman of the committee, and the three men filed out.

Mr. Plumfield looked over at Allan, after a moment, with a little laugh.

“I’m afraid those fellows have got me,” he said. “I’m morally convinced that Bassett’s crooked, but there’s no way to prove it. I’m afraid I’ll have to back down. I made a mistake in suspending him in the first place, but the man’s manner irritated me.”

And so, that afternoon, when the committee reappeared, it was informed that Bassett had been reinstated as requested.

They filed out with ill-concealed triumph on their faces, and Mr. Plumfield felt uncomfortably that his mistake had been a serious one. In gaining a victory, Bassett had enthroned himself more firmly than ever in the confidence of his associates.

Three hours later, in the dusk of the early winter evening, Mr. Plumfield left his office and started toward his home. As he crossed the tracks, and came opposite a saloon which occupied the corner nearest the station, the door suddenly swung open and two or three men stumbled out. They were talking loudly, and as they came under the glare of the street lamps, Mr. Plumfield saw that one of them was Bassett. The engineer saw him at the same moment.

“Why, here’s the train master,” he cried, lurching forward. “Well, so ye had t’ crawfish, didn’t ye, me bird? An’ well fer ye ye did!”

“Bassett,” said Mr. Plumfield, quietly, “you’re drunk. Take care, or you’ll get a dose a good deal worse than the last one.”

“Oh, I will, will I?” cried Bassett, coming closer. “Well, you jest try it! You jest try it!”

“All right,” said Mr. Plumfield. “You don’t need to report any more. You’re not in the employ of the P. & O. any longer.”

“Ain’t I?” cried Bassett. “Well, we’ll see what the boys say to that! You heerd this, boys—”

But without waiting to hear more, Mr. Plumfield went on his way. This time, he felt, he would have to stick to his decision, no matter what happened. And he felt, too, that he was right.