Inside the freight-house, meanwhile, Allan had called the men together and was giving them a little talk.

“I want you men to understand,” he said, “that you are in no sense confined here. You’re free to go at any time. But if you do go, you can’t come back. And I think all of you will understand the necessity for that rule. We are keeping you here, at considerable expense to ourselves, in order to protect you from interference by the strikers. We are trying to see that you are well fed and comfortably lodged, and we are giving you this board and lodging without charge. Of course, this isn’t all pure philanthropy on our part. We are doing it because we believe that it is only in this way we can keep you together. If we permitted you to board and lodge out in the town, we would never know when you were going to show up for your run. There would always be the danger that you would be prevented from coming, either by force or persuasion. It would be impossible for us to run the road in that way. The only way we can run it is to know certainly that you will be on hand when needed, and the only way we can be certain of that is to keep you together. When the strike is ended, there will be no further need of doing that, and a permanent place will be offered every one of you who makes good. If there are any of you who aren’t willing to work for the present under those conditions, now is the time to say so. If you want to quit, you are free to do so.”

He looked around over the circle of faces, and waited a moment to see if there was any response.

“That’s fair enough,” said one of the men at last. “I ain’t got no kick comin’,” and he walked over toward his cot, and began to make preparations to turn in. Two or three others followed his example, and finally the whole group broke up quietly.

“And that’s all right,” said Stanley, with a sigh of relief. “I’m glad we got rid of that other duck. He meant trouble—an’ he means it yet. You look out for him, Mr. West.”

“All right,” answered Allan, with a laugh. “I guess I can look out for myself.”

“You’ll need an eye in the back of your head t’ do it,” commented Stanley. “He’s the style that hits from behind.”

“Well, I’ll keep my eyes open—and you keep yours open, too.”

“Trust me for that,” said the detective. “Good night, sir.”

“Good-night,” said Allan and stepped out into the darkness.

As his feet touched the platform outside the door he felt that it was covered with sleet, and by the glint of a distant street lamp, he could see that the sleet was still falling. He hesitated an instant, looking up and down the street.

“Bad night for railroading,” he said to himself. “I guess I’d better see how things are going,” and instead of descending the steps to the street, he followed the platform around the building and started across the tracks toward his office.

Jack Welsh, sitting under the platform where Reddy had left him, smoked his pipe placidly and stared out across the maze of tracks which separated him from the depot building across the yards. A sputtering arc light hung before the station, revealing the groups of figures picking their way carefully along the icy station platform. The rails gleamed white with their coating of ice, and the storm of sleet fell incessantly. Overhead Jack could hear the burdened wires creaking under their load of ice. Occasionally the yard engine came slipping along, vomiting sand on both rails in its effort to grip them, but freight was light, and after awhile, its work ended for a time, it retired to the lower yards, where it stood puffing on a siding. The east-bound flyer, Number Two, was past due, but its failure to arrive caused Jack no uneasiness, for he knew that it was impossible for any train to keep to its schedule on such a night. Occasionally he heard overhead the tramp of the guard going his rounds; far down the yards gleamed the red and yellow lamps guarding the switches; a switchman’s lantern waved from time to time. Jack, sitting cosily in his shelter, watched and understood and revelled in all this; for your old railroad man—born and bred amid these surroundings—finds his work grow more interesting, more fascinating, from year to year, until any other employment seems pale and savourless by comparison.

As Welsh sat there musing, a quick step sounded on the platform over his head, and a lithe figure jumped to the ground and started across the tracks toward the offices.

“O’ course he’d be goin’ back there instead o’ goin’ home,” Jack muttered to himself. “Now, what’d I better do? Hello, what’s that?”

He had caught the sound of a stealthy step overhead, and an instant later, a slim form leaped to the ground and sprang after Allan as swift and noiseless as a panther.

There was a menace in that crouched figure which brought Jack out from under the platform with a jerk. Staring with startled eyes, he fancied he caught a gleam as of a knife-blade in the air and a warning cry leaped involuntarily to his lips.

“Hey, Allan. Look out!” he shouted.

And Allan, starting sharp around at the cry, found himself face to face with Hummel.

The latter, stopping short in his swift career by a mighty effort, stood for an instant, his face convulsed, one hand behind him.

“Well, what is it?” Allan asked, sharply, surveying him with astonishment.

“I—I wanted t’ see you,” answered Hummel, thickly. “I—I—”

“Well, go on,” said Allan, impatiently, as the latter stopped.

“I was hurryin’,” Hummel gasped. “I’m out o’ breath. I wants me job back.”

“You can’t have it. Now get out of these yards. If I catch you here again, I’ll have you run in.”

Hummel’s face flushed, and he made a convulsive movement forward, but stopped, as he heard rapid steps drawing near.

“Why, was it you who shouted, Jack?” asked Allan, in surprise, as the latter came running up. “What was the matter?”

“I seen this feller sneakin’ acrost the yards after you,” Jack explained, apologetically, “an’ I thought he meant trouble. I didn’t know he was a friend o’ yours.”

“I jest wanted t’ speak t’ him,” said Hummel, gruffly, and started to turn away.

But Jack caught him by the arm.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Let’s look into this. Is he a friend o’ yours?”

“No,” Allan answered. “Quite the contrary. He’s a fellow I fired a while ago.”

“Oh,” said Jack, and looked at Hummel more closely. “What’re ye holdin’ one hand behind your back for?” he demanded. “Let’s see it!”

He grabbed at the hidden hand, but at the same instant Hummel, supple as an eel, slipped from his grasp, ducked, and sped down the yards like a shadow.

Jack and Allan stood for an instant staring after him. Then the former, with a sudden exclamation, raised his hand and looked at it. It was covered with blood.

“I thought so!” he cried. “He had a knife! I saw it when he was runnin’ after you.”

“Are you hurt?” and Allan, snatching out his handkerchief, wiped away the blood.

“Only a scratch. The knife got me when I grabbed at him. It’s nothin’. You go ahead, an’ I’ll see if I can find him.”

Allan, examining the wound, saw that it was not a deep one.

“All right,” he said, wrapping his handkerchief about it. “I’ll wait for you at the office.”

Jack nodded and hastened away down the yards in the direction Hummel had taken. But search as he might, he found no trace of that worthy, who had dived in among a lot of box cars stored on the sidings, and made good his escape.

Allan, meanwhile, continued on to his office, and sat thoughtfully down before his desk. The incident of the evening, his own narrow escape, enlightened him as to the danger of the situation. Calm as it appeared on the surface, it was perilous enough underneath, like a vast bed of lava, apparently cool and firm, but ready, at any pin-prick, to burst forth into white-hot flame. He shivered a little at thought of the days to follow and the problems they would present.

But after a moment he shook such thoughts impatiently away. Time enough to cross a bridge when he came to it. Now there were other matters demanding his attention. For, as the night progressed, the load of sleet burdened the wires more and more heavily, until some gave way and the others sputtered and stuttered and sent operators and dispatchers alike to the verge of frenzy.

Nothing disorganizes a railroad more quickly than impeded or inefficient wires, for the reason that its operation depends wholly upon its telegraph system. To interfere with that means inevitably to interfere with traffic, to obstruct it is to obstruct traffic, and to stop it is to stop traffic, or to compel it, at best, to creep painfully along from station to station with one flagman walking in front of every train and another following it a hundred yards in the rear. It may be added that it was the telegraph which made modern railroading possible; and that it becomes impossible at the moment when the dispatcher at headquarters cannot, in some way, keep informed of the position of every train.

So to-night with the wires chattering unintelligible nonsense instead of the usual crisp orders and reports, operators and dispatchers were at their wits’ ends, traffic was delayed, the schedule abandoned and the only hope was that some way, somehow, they would get through the night without accident.

Allan stood for a moment at the door of the dispatchers’ office listening to the crazy instruments.

“I’ve only got one wire left,” announced the dispatcher in charge of the Parkersburg division, “and I might as well try to send a message over a piece of clothes line as over it. I haven’t any idea where that extra west is. It left Vigo half an hour ago, and hasn’t been seen since.”

“Where’s Number Two?” asked Allan.

“Number Two will be here in four or five minutes,” answered the other dispatcher.

“And that freight ought to have been here ten minutes ago!” wailed the first speaker. “Oh, its enough to drive a man crazy,” and he went on calling Schooley’s.

The east bound flyer could not, of course, be permitted to leave Wadsworth until the west-bound freight had pulled in, or had been definitely located. It was lost as completely as though it had wandered away to the farthest corner of the globe.

Allan stood for a moment with a line of perplexity between his eyebrows. Then he looked up with a sudden interest as he heard the faint click-click, click-click which told that the operator at Schooley’s had answered at last.

“How about extra west?” clicked the dispatcher.

“Passed here at 9.22,” came the answer.

Allan glanced at the clock. It was 9.47; in other words, the train had passed Schooley’s twenty-five minutes previously, and Schooley’s was only seven miles out. That seven miles should have been covered in fifteen minutes at the outside. What, then, had happened to delay the train?

A long whistle in the distance told of the approach of the flyer, and a minute later, it rumbled into the station and came wheezing to a stop. The train would stop for five minutes to change engines. That it should be held up longer than that by a freight train was heartrending. It was over half an hour late already, and Allan had hoped that some of this lost time might be made up on the run east to Parkersburg.

“There’s only one thing to be done,” he said, “and that’s to flag out till we find that freight train,” and he hurried down the stairs to give the necessary orders.

Already the new engine had been backed up and coupled onto the train. Engineer and fireman were in their places, having been convoyed safely across the yards by two of Stanley’s men, who remained in the cab to see that they were not interfered with until the train should pull out.

At the foot of the stairs, Allan met the conductor, Andy Leaveland, one of the oldest on the road. He was on his way up to register and get his orders, when Allan stopped him.

“I’ve got the orders, Mr. Leaveland,” he said. “We’ll have to flag out.”

“Flag out!” cried the veteran. “What’s the matter? Wires down?”

“There’s a freight lost somewhere between here and Schooley’s. We’ve got to find it. You’d better start your brakeman out right away.”

“All right,” said Leaveland, and hurried away, while Allan walked forward to the engine.

He explained the difficulty to the engineer, and a minute later, the brakeman, armed with lantern, torpedoes and fusee, hurried past. Leaveland gave him time to get two or three hundred yards ahead, and then gave the signal to start.

The train crawled slowly out through the yards, past the shops and the great coal chute, and finally emerged upon the main track. Far ahead, Allan could see the brakeman’s lantern bobbing along. The ice on the track rendered rapid walking impossible and more than once, the train was brought to a stop to give the brakeman a chance to maintain his distance. Back in the coaches, the passengers were fuming and fretting, while the conductor was doing his best to pacify them.

“We’re going mighty slow,” he said. “Most roads would go faster. But this road don’t take any chances. We won’t get you through on time, but we’ll get you through safe and sound, without the slightest chance of accident. I guess if we put it to a vote, most of you would vote for safety rather than speed,” and he looked around at the passengers with a smile.

“You bet we would,” assented one of the men, and there was less grumbling after that.

And yet there are few things more trying to the nerves than to ride in a train which may proceed no faster than a man can walk. An hour was consumed in covering five miles, and not a trace of the missing freight had been discovered. Another mile—and then Allan, staring forward through the night, saw the brakeman’s lantern waving violently.

“He’s found something,” he said, and the engineer nodded.

The next moment, a fusee flared redly through the darkness, lighting up the brakeman—and something on the track back of him—a dim shape—

“Why, it’s the train!” cried Allan. “And with its headlight out! And with no brakeman out to protect it! I don’t understand it!” And he sat with his brows knitted in thought as the train rolled slowly forward.

It stopped within thirty feet of the other train, and Allan swung himself to the ground and ran forward.

“What’s happened?” he asked the brakeman, who came to meet him. “Where’s the crew?”

“Blamed if I know,” answered the brakeman, in an awed voice. “There’s the train, but nary a trace of her crew could I find. She’s deserted!”