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 the engine whistle sounded at short intervals, and, taking Stevens, buttoned his reefer and started up the grade after the three trackmen. They fired their revolvers as they went on, but the storm tossed their signals on the ears of Mears and his companions from every quarter of the compass. McCloud was standing on the last tie and planning with his companion how best to keep the grade as the two advanced, when the engine signals suddenly changed. “Now that sounds like one of Bill Dancing’s games,” said McCloud to his companion. “What the deuce is it, Stevens?”

Stevens, who knew a little of everything, recognized the signals in an instant and threw up his hands. “It’s Morse code, Mr. McCloud, and they are in—Mears and the foremen—and us for the train as quick as the Lord will let us; that’s what they’re whistling.”

“So much for an education, Stevens. Bully for you! Come on!”

They regained the flat cars and made their way back to the caboose and engine, which stood uncoupled. McCloud got into the cab with Dancing and Stevens. Mears, from the caboose ahead, signalled all in, and, with a whistling scream, the engine started to back the caboose to Piedmont. They had hardly more than got under full headway when a difficulty became ap- 125