They ran
through a big cut, rounded an abrupt curve, and dashed right into a
cloud of smoke, while the crackle of flame spit and sparkled, bringing
them up short with speechless horror. The huge, wooden railroad trestle
spanning Whitefish Creek was in flames. For an instant the entire gang
gazed at it dumbly. Then a boy yelled:
"Great Scott, fellows, isn't it good there's no train due? She'd plunge
round this curve right into it."
Then Benny Ellis went white. "Who's got a watch?" he asked very quietly.
"My Ingersoll says five-fifteen, and she's right, too," replied Joe
McKenzie.
Benny gulped; he seemed to find a difficulty in speaking, but the words
finally came. "My dad went down to Grey's Point to bring up a special
to-night, the Divisional Superintendent's private car and some fast
freight. They're--they're--they're due about now."
"Thanks be! Grey's Point is this side of the trestle. We can stop them,"
shouted Joe, and without argument "the gang" turned, tearing at a
breakneck pace around the curve, and through the cut, in a hopeless
effort to make their home town before the special reached it.
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