he struck a cross-tie and nearly fell. It had got dark and among the
trees the gloom was deep; one could not see the ties. Yet he must run,
and his breath got labored and his heart thumped. He did not know where
the train was, only that it was near. The woods throbbed with a savage
din; the big cars, loaded with rattling gravel, clanged and roared as
they plunged down grade.

Lister hardly thought he could stop the train. It looked as if he would
be caught on the trestle, but he meant to go on. He did not argue about
it; he was rather moved by instinctive stubbornness. At moments of
strain one does not argue and logic has no appeal. Character counts for
all, and Lister followed his bent. His job was urgent and must be
carried out.

When he reached the bridge he saw white threads of water between the
timbers of the open frame. The spacing of the ties was not regular, and
if he stepped short, or too far, he would go through. Then, if he did
not strike a brace, he would fall upon the rocks in the stream. All the
same, he saw the blaze of the head-lamp pick out the trees across the
ravine and sprang on to the bridge.

Somehow he hit the ties; perhaps by subconscious judgment, and perhaps
by good luck. Then he felt loose gravel under his feet and thrilled with
a strange fierce satisfaction. His breath was labored and his body wet
by sweat, but the moving beam had not reached the lamp. He was going to
make it.

When the black front of a gravel car leaped out of the gloom he jumped
off the track. The locomotive pushed the cars, the train was long, and
the lamp was but a few yards off. It had not gone out, although the