Allan had recovered somewhat from the nervous shock the threatened accident had given him, and was receiving a message as Mr. Schofield entered. The latter paused a moment to look at him—at the handsome, honest, boyish face; the broad and open brow bespeaking intelligence and character, the mouth firm beyond his years, the eyes steady and fearless; and as he looked, a weight seemed to drop from his heart. Whoever was to blame, he knew instinctively that it was not Allan West.

He sat down with an audible sigh of relief, and got out a cigar and lighted it. A moment later, Allan repeated the message, closed his key and looked up with a smile. Mr. Schofield had proved himself a friend tried and true, and one upon whom he knew he could rely.

“Well,” said the trainmaster, answering the smile, “I’ve come to find out how it all happened. Suppose you tell me the story.”

Allan passed his hand quickly across his eyes.

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“I really know very little,” he began. “I came on duty at the usual time, and took an order or two. Then I heard the operator at Hamden report the special. I knew it would be here in a few minutes, and as I had no order for it—”

“You’re sure there was no order for it?” interrupted Mr. Schofield.

“Yes, sir; I had just looked over the orders on the hook. So I went to the door to be sure the signal showed a clear track.”

“It did show a clear track, did it?”

“Yes, sir. I stood there a moment longer; and then I heard the special coming and saw its light flash around the curve. I watched it coming—it must have been running nearly a mile a minute.”

“It was—all of it,” said Mr. Schofield.

“Well, it was almost at the switch, when I heard another engine chug-chugging up the grade from West Junction. I don’t remember clearly just what I did for the next moment or two—I have a sort of recollection that I jerked the signal over and then I heard a shot—”

“It was a torpedo.”

“A torpedo?” echoed Allan. “But who—”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. We’ll look into that after awhile. Go ahead with your story.”

Allan paused a moment to collect his thoughts.

“I heard the brakes go on and saw the special sort of humping itself up in the effort to stop—”

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“It was humping itself, and no mistake,” agreed the trainmaster. “And we were rattling around inside like dried peas in a pod.”

“And then,” Allan went on, “I thought I heard the trains come together, and things sort of went black before me; but I managed to pull myself together enough to report that the track was blocked. I was doing that when you came in.”

“Yes, I heard you. Now let’s find out how that freight got past West Junction. The operator there must have had an order to hold it until the special passed.”

He sat down before the key and called West Junction. The operator there, who had heard of the accident, answered almost instantly. At the same moment, the conductor and engineer of the freight, having assured themselves that no great damage had been done, and having replaced their shattered headlight by a lantern from the caboose, came in to report and ask for orders.

Mr. Schofield waited until he had received an answer to his question, then he closed the key and arose and faced them.

“The operator at West Junction says you left there at 6.20,” he said. “How does it come it took you nearly an hour to make eight miles?”

“We got a hot-box,” explained the conductor, "the worst I ever see. It was about midway of the train, so nobody smelt it till it got so bad it blazed up, and then I happened to see it when I looked ? 141 ? out the winder of the caboose. When we opened the box, we found it dry as a bone, not a bit of dope in it—regularly cleaned out. I’ll bet it hadn’t been packed for a month. The journal was swelled so tight it took us half an hour to get it down."

“Yes, an’ we used nearly all th’ water in th’ tank doin’ it,” broke in the conductor. “An’ then when I tried t’ start, I found th’ brakes set, an’ we lost ten minutes more lookin’ for th’ air-hose that had busted an’ puttin’ on a new one.”

A hot-box, it should be explained in passing, is caused by imperfect lubrication of the axles of cars or engines, at the point where they pass through the journal-bearings. As they revolve rapidly under the great weight upon them, the friction generates heat, unless the surfaces are properly oiled, and this heat causes the journal to swell until it sticks in the bearing and refuses to revolve at all. Not infrequently the heat is so great that it generates a flame and sets the car on fire. To keep the journal lubricated, it is enclosed in a metal box, called a journal-box, and this is filled with axle-grease, or “dope,” as railroaders call it. In every railroad yard where trains are made up, there is a gang of men whose sole business it is to go from car to car, dope-bucket in hand, and make sure that all journal-boxes are properly filled. For hot-boxes are a prolific source of trouble. So are burst air-hose. Air-brakes, operated by compressed air, are very generally in use now on freight-cars as well as passenger-coaches. ? 142 ? The compressed air is carried under the cars in iron pipes, but the coupling is of rubber-hose, in order to allow some play as the cars bump together or strain apart, and this hose frequently bursts under the great pressure. A burst hose instantly sets all the brakes, and the train-hands must first find the break, and then replace the burst coupling with a new one.

Mr. Schofield had listened to all these explanations with furrowed brow. Now he turned abruptly to the conductor.

“When you found you had run over your time,” he demanded, “how does it come you proceeded without a flag?”

“We hadn’t run over our time,” protested the conductor, hotly. “We had till 7.08 to make the Junction. We supposed of course the operator here knew his business and would protect us.”

“You would have been protected if I’d known you were coming,” said Allan, quickly, “but I had no order for you.”

“What!” demanded the engineer, incredulously, “do you mean to say th’ dispatcher didn’t cover us?”

“I certainly do.”

“An’ you didn’t git no order fer th’ special to meet us here?”

“I got no order whatever.”

The engineer, his face very red, produced from his pocket a soiled piece of tissue-paper.

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“Read that,” he said, and handed it to the trainmaster.

Mr. Schofield opened it, his face very stern.

“’Engine 618,’” he read, "’will run extra from West Junction to Byers Junction and will keep clear of special passenger-train west, engine 315, after 7.08 P. M.’"

“We’d have got here all right at 7.06,” went on the engineer, truculently. “We had three minutes.”

“What time did the special pass?” asked Mr. Schofield.

“At 7.05,” answered Allan.

The trainmaster nodded, and handed the order back to the engineer.

“You boys are all right,” he said. “You’re evidently not to blame.”

The engineer chuckled.

“You bet we ain’t,” he agreed. “But that’ll be th’ last o’ Mister Dispatcher on this road, I reckon. Who was it?”

“Greggs,” answered the trainmaster, tersely.

“Hum!” said the engineer, after a moment’s reflection............