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 street-crossing where Engineer Dixon had killed the farmer.  Durgan climbed to the cab of the 1010, and the changed plan was explained in a dozen words.  But now came the crux.

“If I stand here till you’d be bringin’ me my orders, I’ll have the whole kit av thim buzzin’ round to know fwhat’s the matther,” said Callahan; but there was no other thing to do, and Durgan hurried back to the telegraph office to play the messenger.

He was too long about it.  Before he got back, Halkett was under the cab window of the 1010, demanding to know—­with many objurgations—­why Callahan had stopped in the middle of the yards.

“Get a move on you!” he shouted.  “The express is right behind us, and it’ll run us down, you damned bog-trotter!”

Callahan’s gauntleted hand shot up to the throttle-bar.

“I’m l’avin’, Misther Halkett,” he said mildly.  “Will yez go back to the car, or ride wit’ me?”

The general superintendent took no chance of catching the Naught-seven’s hand-rails in the darkness, and he whipped up into the cab at the first sharp cough of the exhaust.

“I’ll go back when you stop for your orders,” he said; but a shadowy figure had leaped upon the engine-step a scant half-second behind him, and Callahan was stuffing the crumpled copy of the order into the sweat-band of his cap.  The next instant the big 1010 leaped forward like a blooded horse under an unmerited cut of the whip, slid past the yard limits telegraph office and shot out upon the main line of the Western Division.

“Sit down, Misther Halkett, an’ make yerself aisy!” yelled Callahan across the cab. “’Tis small use Jimmy Shovel’ll have for his box this night.”

“Shut off, you Irish madman!” was the shouted command.  “Don’t you see you’re on the wrong division?”

Callahan gave the throttle-bar another outward hitch, tipped his seat and took a hammer from the tool-box.

“I know where I’m goin’, an’ that’s more thin you know, ye blandhanderin’ divil!  Up on that box wit’ you, an’ kape out av Jimmy Shovel’s road, or I’ll be the death av yez!  Climb, now!”

It was at this moment that the tense strain of suspense was broken in the despatcher’s room on the second floor of the Union Station.  The telephone skirled joyously, and the train-master snatched up the ear-piece.

“What does he say?” asked Kent.

“It’s all right.  He says Callahan is out on the Western Division, with Tischer chasing him according to programme.  Halkett’s in the cab of the 1010 with Patsy, and—­hold on—­By George! he says one of them jumped the car as it was passing the limits station!”