Smoky Creek Bridge
with his chief, the mournful wandering of his uncomplaining eyes, his struggle to raise an obstinate window before he could answer a question, would have moved a heart harder than McCloud’s. The cuspidor had been restored to one corner of the large room, and to this corner Rooney, like a man with a jaw full of birdshot, always walked first. When he turned back to face his chief his face had lost its haunted expression, and he answered with solemn cheer, “On time,” or “Fourteen minutes late,” as the case might be. This night his face showed something out of the ordinary, and he faced McCloud with evident uneasiness. “Holy smoke, Mr. McCloud, here’s a ripper! We’ve lost Smoky Creek Bridge.”
“Lost Smoky Creek Bridge?” echoed McCloud, rising in amazement.
“Burned to-night. Seventy-seven was flagged by the man at the pump station.”
“That’s a tie-up for your life!” exclaimed McCloud, reaching for the message. “How could it catch fire? Is it burned up?”
“I can’t get anything on that yet; this came from Canby. I’ll have a good wire in a few minutes and get it all for you.”
“Have Phil Hailey and Hyde notified, Rooney, and Reed and Brill Young, and get up a train. Smoky Creek Bridge! By heavens, we are ripped
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