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Norman hesitated, obeying finally at the point of a pistol. The man ran his finger up and down the column of figures until he found what he wanted.

"It's all right, boys; we don't need no orders. Fust meetin'-point's fifty mile down the road. Mister lightnin'-slinger, you come out from behind therewe'll take you 'long, an' then you won't be gittin' a switch turned ag'in' us at the fust side track.'

Norman held back and tried to gain more time by arguing the case, but the pistol came into play again, and he had to go, without so much as a word to Phoebe, who was pale with indignation and fright.

When Norman surrendered, the man spoke again. "Now, then, git a move on that ingine-driver, an' we'll go."

Phoebe's first impulse was to rush out after them to plead for her father's life; then she suddenly remembered that the special train was coming from the east. Supposing her father yielded; or, what was more likely, supposing they put him on the engine and made him responsible for his life and theirs, while one of their number ran it? Phoebe threw herself down at the table and began to call the first station east of Orival with frantic eagerness. If she could only raise the operator at Little Butte in time to have them warn the sheriff's special!

Again and again she wrote "lu" "lu," signing "oj" at every fourth repetition, but there was no answering break, and the angry voices on the platform grew louder and more threatening. At last, knowing that death-messages take precedence of all others, she

wrote "deth " "deth " "deth" between the signatures, and then the operator at Little Butte broke in and answered. Phoebe began to tremble nervously through her message, but he broke in again:

"West-bound special passed here five minutes ago," came clicking back, and then she knew that if 201 left Orival there would be a collision.

The mere thought of it made her sick and faint, and the lights in the office seemed to be going out. Then she gasped and came to herself with a little jerk when the crowd began to move down the platform, and she heard the leader say, "All right, my covey; we'll put you on the ingine an' go anyway."

Before the crowd was fairly in motion Phoebe had snatched the switch-key from its nail on the wall, and, darting out of the back door, she skirted the mob and flew through the darkness toward the forward end of the long freight train. As she ran she prayed that the engine might not be beyond the end of the siding, and she nearly cried with thankfulness when she could see the red eye of the signal lamp peering around the front end of the big mogul. In ten seconds more she was at the switch-stand, the red eye flashed to the east, and the two lines of rails glistening under the mogul's head-light swerved to the side track. Knowing that there was a chance for failure if she tried to start the heavy train, Phoebe darted back and pulled the coupling-pin between the tender and the first car, running forward again to climb into the engine just as the first stragglers of the crowd began to come up. They gave

her but a moment, but that was enough. Engine 399 had an easy throttle, and Phoebe had opened it more than once. The vanguard of the tramp army saw a flutter of skirts on the foot-board, heard a hissing of steam in the cylinders and two or three sharp coughs from the exhaust, and then the big mogul dropped from the end of the open switch and plowed into the ties, blocking the track as effectually as fifty tons of iron and steel could do it.

Phoebe did not wait to see what would happen afterward. She had done her part; there would be no collision; and they could not blame her father for something that he had had no hand in. She was safe in Mrs. Hannah's kitchen by the time the special whistled for the station; and when the train rattled up and the sounds of the fray floated across the tracks to her refuge she hid her face in Mrs. Hannah's apron and cried as any other girl might whose father and uncle were in the thick of a battle.

"There, there, Phoebe, girl; don't cry, dear; they'll be all right," comforted Mrs. Hannah, and she was still trying to console Phœbe when Tom Norman ran in.

"Where is she? Where's the little girl that's got more sense and sand than all the rest of us put together ?"

Phoebe looked up quickly. O Uncle Tom! where's pa? Is he hurt?"

"No, he's all right; only they're about to smother him with praise. Mr. Johnson's over at the station, and he wants to see you."

Five minutes later a shy little girl with a tearstained face was led into the presence of the Superintendent, who sat at the telegraph desk sending messages right and left. He rose and took Phoebe's hands in his in a way that made the little group of trainmen forget for the moment that he was the stern "old man" of the division.

"And this is the little girl who ditches our engines, is it?" he said, gravely. "What put such a

thing into your head, my child?"

"Oh! it didn't have to be put in. I knew there would be a head-ender if I didn't do something quick, and I couldn't think of anything else."

Mr. Johnson smiled at the ready relapse into railway phrase, and said: "It was a bright thought; it has saved us a good many dollars, and probably some lives, too. Now if the company were a good fairy, like those in the story-books, what would you ask for a reward?"

Phoebe had a sudden inspiration. O Mr. Johnson! there's one thing that would make me happier than anything else if pa could only have a good run, so we could live in a real town!"

Mr. Johnson looked around at the circle of friendly faces. "I think your father has earned that for himself," he said. "Is that the only thing you want?"

"Oh! no, indeed," replied Phoebe candidly; "but, you see, if we lived in a town, perhaps I could get some of the other things. We might happen to get acquainted with somebody that had a piano, and then, maybe, I could learn to play, and-" Here

Phoebe suddenly realized that she was chattering— actually chattering-to the man of whom every one on the division stood in awe, and she shut up like an oyster that had been caught napping with its shell

open.

The Superintendent laughed at her confusion, and sat down to finish his telegraphing. "When the General Manager hears that, I'm sure he'll be sorry that the company doesn't run a piano factory," he said, whereat the men laughed, too.

Mr. Johnson had a little private conversation with Artley and Norman that night after Phoebe had gone back to Mrs. Hannah, and several things came of it For one, the engineer got his smart "eight-wheeler " and a passenger run with the promptness that characterizes Western railway promotion when the head of a department makes up his mind; and, at the same time, Norman found his way smoothed for a transfer in a most miraculous manner. A third event growing out of the same talk concerned Phoebe, but she knew nothing about it until one day, after they were settled in a comfortable cottage in the "real town," a van drove up to the door with a piano. It was a gift from the railway company to Phoebe, and on a silver plate just above the key-board was the inscription:

To Miss Phoebe Artley:

For meritorious services

on the night of September sixth
at Orival Junction.

FRANCIS LYNDE

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