e side of
the car, and instantly a clear-voiced electric bell, in the cab of the
locomotive that was dragging his train toward destruction, rang out an
imperative call for brakes. The engineman's right hand sought the little
brass "air" lever as he heard the sound. With his left he shut off steam.
Ten seconds later the special stood motionless, with its pilot pointing
out over the Minkskill bridge.

President Vanderveer had not recognized the panting, coal-begrimed,
oil-stained young fireman who had so mysteriously boarded his car while it
was running at full speed; but Eltje knew his voice. Now, as her father
turned from the electric button to demand an explanation, he saw the girl
seize the stranger's hand. "It's Rod, father! It's Rodman Blake!" she
cried.

"So it is!" exclaimed the President, grasping the lad's other hand, and
scanning him closely. "But what is the matter, Rodman? How came you here?
Why have you stopped us, and what is the meaning of this disguise?"

A few words served to explain the situation.

Then the President, with Rod and the conductor of the special, left the
car, lanterns in hand, to go ahead and discover how far they were from
the treacherous bridge. As they reached the ground they were joined by
Truman Stump, who had slowed the terrific speed of his locomotive at
the moment of his fireman's leap from its pilot, and brought it to a
standstill close behind the special. In a voice trembling with emotion
the old engineman said:

"It was the finest thing I've seen done in thirty years of running, Rod,
and I thank God for your nerve."

A minute later, when President Vanderveer realized the full extent of the
threatened danger, and the narrowness of their escape, he again held the
young fireman's hand, as he said:

"And I thank God, Rodman, not only for your nerve, but that he permitted
you to be on time. A few seconds later and our run on this line would have
been ended forever."

After a short consultation it was decided that the special should remain
where it was, while locomotive number 10 should run back to the station,
where its train still waited, bearing a message to be telegraphed to the
nearest gang of bridge carpenters.

How different was that backward ride from the mad, breathless race, with
all its dreadful uncertainties, that Truman Stump and Rod Blake had just
made over the same track. How silent they had been then, and how they
talked now. How cheerily their whistle soun