It was one of those dismal, murky, depressing nights, the like of which, we used to say back in reporting days, was good for a murder. Often, the prophecy came true. Which, from a newspaper standpoint, was an asset, for the occasion usually betokened an enticing banner line for page one of the morning edition.

Eleven o'clock had come and the deeply interested trainmaster and I were gazing intently up through the yards for the piercing headlight of No. 79, the Chicago-St. Louis Fast Mail. It was ten minutes overdue, then.

“You're in for a ride to-night, boy,” Ennis, my companion, assured me.

“Why?” I queried, in reply. “They won't attempt to make up lost time to-night, surely?”

“Depends on who's pulling her,” said Ennis, professionally. “If it's either Wilcoxson or Sid Bean, you'll not be very late in St. Louis, no matter what time you get out of Springfield. There's a fifteen-minute clearance order for 79, you know, from one end of the run to the other; and she carries a cargo of contract mail, and a lot of the distance from here south is down hill.”

A panorama of wide curves, some of them not so wide, and descending grades down through the Macoupin bottoms, 50 miles south-with which I was familiar-swept hastily past in my mind. A train had piled up near Macoupin station, at the bottom of the hill, ten days before. I remembered having read of it, and wondered why 79 should choose this night to be late.

“You're going to get your money's worth, boy,” continued Trainmaster Ennis. “Wish I could go along.”

The last remark brought reassurance. Again, we gazed northward, past the Madison Street crossing. At fifteen minutes past eleven-I noted the time-a burst of light, far eclipsing the street lamps that dotted the freight yards, suddenly threw the strings of box-cars and flats into vivid outline, even at half-a-mile that dark night.