“Oh, my God!” he whispered – and never a prayer rose more fervently from lips than those three broken words. Again he called, and again, and again. The minutes slipped away. Still he called – with the life and death – the “seventeen” – called and called. And there was no answer save that echo in the room that brought the perspiration streaming now from Regan’s face, a harder light into Carleton’s eyes, and a chill like death into Donkin’s heart. Suddenly Donkin pushed back his chair; and his fingers, from the key, touched the crystal of his watch. “The second section will have passed Cassil’s now,” he said in a curious, unnatural, matter-of-fact tone. “It’ll bring them together about a mile east of there – in another minute.” And then Carleton spoke-master railroader, “Royal” Carleton, it was up to him then, all the pity of it, the ruin, the disaster, the lives out, all the bitterness to cope with as he could. And it was in his eyes, all of it. But his voice was quiet. It rang quick, peremptory, his voice – but quiet. “Clear the line, Bob” he said. “Plug in the round house for the wrecker-and tell them to send uptown for the crew.”