the "air;" that the train began to slide faster and faster after the first switch-back was passed and that her speed kept on increasing up to the moment that the crash came. He figured that it couldn't be anything else—just the "air"—it wouldn't work and the control of the train was lost. That was all he knew.
And while Regan swore and fumed, Carleton's face set grim and hard—and he waited for Dahleen.
It was a week before the fireman faced Carleton across the super's desk, but when that time came Carleton opened on him straight from the shoulder, not even a word of sympathy, not so much as "glad to see you're out again," just straight to the point, hard and quick.
"Dahleen," he snapped, "I want to know what happened in the cab that night, and I want a straight story. No other kind of talking will do you any good."
Dahleen's face, white with the pallor of his illness, flushed suddenly red.
"You're jumping a man pretty hard, aren't you, Mr. Carleton?" he said resentfully.
"Maybe I've reason to," replied Carleton. "Well, I'm waiting for that story."
"There is no story that I know of," said Dahleen evenly. "After we passed switch-back number one we lost control of the train—the 'air' wouldn't work."
"Do you expect me to believe that?"
"You don't seem to," retorted Dahleen, with a set jaw.
"What did you do to stop her?"
