As soon as the train, which was No. 22, a livestock express, had
departed, I made my O. S. report, and then heaved a big sigh of relief.
Scarcely had the tail-lights disappeared across the bridge and around
the bend, when the despatcher called again and said, "For God's sake
stop that train."
I said, "I can't. She's gone."
"Well," he snapped back, "there's a good chance for a fine smash-up this
night."
That scared me almost out of my wits, and I looked at my copy of the
order. But it read all right, and yet I felt mighty creepy. About thirty
minutes afterwards, I heard a heavy step on the platform and in a second
the hind brakeman came tramping in, and cheerfully saluted me with,
"Well, I reckon you've raised h--l to-night. 21 and 22 are up against
each other hard about a mile and a half east of here. They met on a
curve and engines, box-cars, livestock and freight are piled up in fine
shape."
"Any one killed?" I asked with a blanched face and sinking heart.
"Naw, no one is exactly killed, but one engineer and a fireman are
pretty badly scalded, and 'Shorty' Jones, our head man, has a broken leg
caused by jumping.
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