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the grade.
Banneker waited. He drew out his watch. Seven. Seven and a half.
Eight. No sound from westward. He frowned. Like most of the road's
employees, he took a special and almost personal interest in having the
regal train on time, as if, in dispatching it through, he had given it a
friendly push on its swift and mighty mission. Was she steaming badly?
There had been no sign of it as she passed. Perhaps something had gone
wrong with the brakes. Or could the track have--
The agent tilted sharply forward, his lithe frame tense. A long drawn,
quivering shriek came down-wind to him. It was repeated. Then short
and sharp, piercing note on piercing note, sounded the shrill, clamant
voice.
The great engine of Number Three was yelling for help.

CHAPTER II
Banneker came out of his chair with a spring.
"Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!" screamed the strident voice.

It was like an animal in pain and panic.
For a brief instant the station-agent halted at the door to assure himself
that the call was stationary. It was. Also it was slightly muffled. That
meant that the train was still in the cut. As he ran to the key and sent in
the signal for Stanwood, Banneker reflected what this might mean.
Crippled? Likely enough. Ditched? He guessed not. A ditched
locomotive is usually voiceless if not driverless as well. Blocked by a
slide? Rock Cut had a bad repute for that kind of accident. But the
quality of the call predicated more of a catastrophe than a mere
blockade. Besides, in that case why could not the train back down--
The answering signal from the dispatcher at Stanwood interrupted his
conjectures.
"Number Three in trouble in the Cut," ticked Banneker fluently. "Think
help probably needed from you. Shall I go out?"
"O. K.," came the answer. "Take charge. Bad track reported three miles
east may delay arrival."
Banneker dropped and locked the windows, set his signal for "track
blocked" and ran to the portable house. Inside he stood, considering.
With swift precision he took from one of the home-carpentered shelves
a compact emergency kit, 17 S 4230, "hefted" it, and adjusted it,
knapsack fashion, to his back; then from a small cabinet drew a flask,
which he disposed in his hip-pocket. Another part of the same cabinet
provided a first-aid outfit, 3 R 0114. Thus equipped he was just closing
the door after him when another thought struck him and he returned to
slip a coil of light, strong sash-cord, 36 J 9078, over his shoulders to his
waist where he deftly tautened it. He had seen railroad wrecks before.
For a moment he considered leaving his coat, for he had upwards of
three miles to go in the increasing heat; but, reflecting that the outward
and visible signs of authority might save time and questions, he thought
better of it. Patting his pocket to make sure that his necessary notebook
and pencil were there, he set out at a moderate, even, springless lope.
He had no mind to reach a scene which might require his best qualities
of mind and body, in a semi-exhausted state. Nevertheless, laden as he

was, he made the three miles in less than half an hour. Let no man who
has not tried to cover at speed the ribbed treacheries of a railroad track
minimize the achievement!
A sharp curve leads to the entrance of Rock Cut. Running easily,
Banneker had reached the beginning of the turn, when he became
aware of a lumbering figure approaching him at a high and wild sort of
half-gallop. The man's face was a welter of blood. One hand was
pressed to it. The other swung crazily as he ran. He would have swept
past Banneker unregarding had not the agent caught him by the
shoulder.
"Where are you hurt?"
The runner stared wildly at the young man. "I'll soom," he mumbled
breathlessly, his hand still crumpled against the dreadfully smeared
face. "Dammum, I'll soom."
He removed his hand from his mouth, and the red drops splattered and
were lost upon the glittering, thirsty sand. Banneker wiped the man's
face, and found no injury. But the fingers which he had crammed into
his mouth were bleeding profusely.
"They oughta be prosecuted," moaned the sufferer. "I'll soom. For ten
thousan' dollars. M'hand is smashed. Looka that! Smashed like a bug."
Banneker caught the hand and expertly bound it, taking the man's name
and address as he worked.
"Is it a bad wreck?" he asked.
"It's hell. Look at m'hand! But I'll soom, all right. _I_'ll show'm ...
Oh! ... Cars are afire, too ... Oh-h-h! Where's a hospital?"
He cursed weakly as Banneker, without answering, re-stowed his
packet and ran on.
A thin wisp of