“Tischer.”

“Give him orders to cut out all the stops.  If he is more than fifty-five minutes late at Bighorn, he can come in and get his time.”

Tischer had just got the word to go, and was pulling out on the yard main line.

“I’ll catch him with the wire at yard limits,” said M’Tosh.  Then:  “Would you mind hurrying your people a little, Major?  The express is due to leave.”

Guilford was a heavy man for his weight, and he waddled back to the others, waving his arms as a signal for them to board the car.

Kent saw the vice-president of the Overland Short Line shake hands with Bucks and take his leave, and was so intent upon watching the tableau of departure that he failed to notice the small boy in Western Union blue who was trying to thrust a telegram, damp from the copying rolls, into his hand.

“It’s a rush, sir,” said the boy, panting from his quick dash across the track platforms.

It was Ormsby’s message from Breezeland; and while Kent was trying to grasp the tremendous import of it, M’Tosh was giving Callahan the signal to go.  Kent sprang past the gate-keeper and gave the square of damp paper to the train-master.

“My God! read that!” he gasped, with a dry sob of excitement.  “It was our chance—­one chance in a million—­and we’ve lost it!”

M’Tosh was a man for a crisis.  The red tail-lights of the private-car special were yet within a sprinter’s dash of the trackhead, but the train-master lost no time chasing a ten-wheel flyer with “Red” Callahan at the throttle.

“Up to my office!” he shouted; and ten seconds later Kent was leaning breathless over the desk in the despatcher’s room while M’Tosh called Durgan over the yard limits telephone.

“Is that you, Durgan?” he asked, when the reply came.  Then:  “Drop the board on the mail, quick! and send somebody to tell Tischer to side-track, leaving the main line Western Division clear.  Got that?”

The answer was evidently prompt and satisfactory, since he began again 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.