THE OPERATOR’S RIDE.
THE little station was silent, save for the occasional
click of an instrument. A long, slow moving freight
had passed on its way up the mountain, leaving the operator
to resume his chair and his reverie.
“Gib” Adams had chargeof the dispatcher’s office, called
Bell Glen, on the B & V., near the top of the Blue Ridge
Mountains. From ( where he sat on the platform, Adams
could see the narrow ribbon of steel rails descend the slope
in a big loop and stretch away to the west. . He could trace
the dusty pike from his feet, down the ridge, and across the
valley, till it was lost among the trees and hills in the dis
tance. Below him, just at the foot of the mountain, lay the
little town of C—with the smoke rising from hearth and
forge. Through the morning haze it looked like an island
of brown in a sea of green. The valley was dotted with
white farm buildings, and a little stream added its charm to
the picture.
A click click, click from the instrument interrupted
bis reverie. He leisurely answered the call and received this
message: “Runaway cars coming, throw switch.” Hardly
had the sounder ceased when the “runaways”—a dozen box
cars and a caboose —swept past the door and on down the
grade. For an instant he stood bewildered. In fifteen min
utes No. 54, the regular passenger, would leave C—, and be
gin to ascend the mountain, and in fifteen minutes the
“runaways” would be.nearing the bottom of the slope. He
imagined the whole horrible sight when they came together;
the crash, the shrieks and moans, the grinding of the heavy
trucks, the hiss of escaping steam, then the calls of destract
ed searchers running around the splintered, smoking wreck
age, the bloody hands here and there in the broken windows,
and white, still faces peering with closed eyes out from the
The Operators Ride.