The space in the forward vestibule was narrow and cramped, and with the strain of the dragging car to make the pin stick, it took two of them lying flat, waiting for the back-surging moment and wiggling it for slack, to pull it.  The coupling dropped out of the hook and the engine shot ahead to the length of the safety-chains; thus far, but no farther.

Halkett stood up.

“It’s up to you, Danforth,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the pounding roar of the wheels.  “You’re the youngest and lightest:  get down on the 1010’s brake-beam and unhook those chains.”

The secretary looked once into the trap with the dodging jaws and the backward-flying bottom and declined the honor.

“I can’t get down there,” he cried.  “And I shouldn’t know what to do if I could.”

Once more the superintendent exhibited his nerve.  He had nothing at stake save a desire to defeat Callahan; but he had the persistent courage of the bull-terrier.  With Bucks and the secretary to steady him he lowered himself in the gap till he could stand upon the brake-beam of the 1010’s tender and grope with one free hand for the hook of the nearest safety-chain.  Death nipped at him every time the engine gave or took up the slack of the loose coupling, but he dodged and hung on until he had satisfied himself.

“It’s no good,” he announced, when they had dragged him by main strength back to a footing in the narrow vestibule.  “The hooks are bent into the links.  We’re due to go wherever that damned Irishman is taking us.”

Shovel was firing, and the trailing smoke and cinders quickly made the forward vestibule untenable.  When they were driven in, Bucks and the receiver went through to the rear platform, where they were presently joined by Halkett and Danforth.

“I’ve been trying the air again,” said the superintendent, “but it’s no go.  What’s next?”

The governor gave the word.

“Wait,” he said; and the four of them clung to the hand-rails, swaying and bending to the bounding lurches of the flying car.

* * * * *

Mile after mile reels from beneath the relentless wheels, and still the speed increases.  Station Donerail is passed, and now the pace is so furious that the watchers on the railed platform can not make out the signals in the volleying wake of dust.  Station Schofield is passed, and again the signals, if any there be, are swiftly drowned in the gray dust-smother.  From Schofield to Agua Caliente is but a scant ten miles; and as the flying train rushes on toward the State boundary, two faces in the quartet of watchers show tense and drawn under the yellow light of the Pintsch platform lamp.

The governor swings himself unsteadily to the right-hand railing and the long look ahead brings the twinkling arc-star of the tower light on Breezeland Inn into view.  He turns to Guilford, who has fallen limp into one of the platform chairs.