Before he could clamber over the coal heap Van had arisen to his feet.
"Stop, Van!" shouted Ralph.
But Van's eyes were fixed on the little winding country road lining-the railway fence at the bottom of the embankment.
An antiquated gig, well loaded and attached to a sorry looking nag, and driven by a man well muffled up in a dilapidated linen duster, was plodding along the dusty thoroughfare.
Upon this outfit Van's eyes appeared to be set. His hand waved nervously, and he seemed to forget where he was, and was not conscious of what he was doing.
He was in the act of stepping off into nothingness, and in a quiver of dread Ralph yelled to the engineer:
"Mr. Griscom, stop! stop!"
But the engineer's hearing was occupied with the hiss of steam directly around him, and his attention riveted on signals ahead.
Ralph made a spring. Some lumps of coal slipped under his hasty footing. His hand just grazed a disappearing foot.
The train was going about fifteen miles an hour, and Van had recklessly taken a header down the embankment.
