almost in the same breath.

"Now go out yourself and flag Callahan before he reaches the limits. Tell
him the time-card's changed and he is to run _west_ with the special to
Megilp as first section of the mail--no stops, or Tischer will run him
down. Leg it! He's half-way down the yard, now!"

The train-master dropped the ear-piece of the telephone and crossed
quickly to the despatcher's table.

"Orders for the Western Division, Donohue," he said curtly, "and don't let
the grass grow. 'Receiver's car, Callahan, engineer, runs to Megilp as
first section of fast mail. Fast mail, Hunt, conductor; Tischer, engineer;
runs to the end of the division without stop, making up all time
possible.' Add to that last, 'By order of the receiver.'"

The orders were sent as swiftly as the despatcher could rattle them off on
his key; and then followed an interval of waiting more terrible than a
battle. Kent tried to speak, but his lips were parched and his tongue was
like a dry stick between his teeth. What was doing in the lower yard?
Would Durgan fail at the pinch and mismanage it so as to give the alarm?
The minutes dragged leaden-winged, and even the sounders on the
despatcher's table were silent.

Suddenly the clicking began again. The operator at "yard limits" was
sending the O.K. to the two train orders. So far, so good. Now if Callahan
could get safely out on the Western Division...

But there was a hitch in the lower yard. Durgan had obeyed his orders
promptly and precisely, and had succeeded in stopping Callahan at the