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Updated: May 7, 2025
To walk, even to stand, was impossible; I crawled along the railroad track, collapsing, resting, going on again, whipping my will power to the task of keeping my brain clear, until after a nightmare that seemed to last through centuries I lay across the door of the switch-tower in which the light was burning.
"That's the mill yonder, I think. We want to swing west a little now. Suppose they are at the house by now?" "Most likely. They had a good start. Shall we get your dad?" "Uhuh. And several others with guns. Better have old Bignold." Mr. Bignold was the only night policeman in Watertown. "There's the city limits, that switch-tower on the Belt Line. Hadn't we better come down a bit.
He did not hear a raging of telephone-bells in the switch-tower, nor the man, as he leaned out and called to .007's engineer: "Got any steam?" "'Nough to run her a hundred mile out o' this, if I could," said the engineer, who belonged to the open road and hated switching. "Then get. The Flying Freight's ditched forty mile out, with fifty rod o' track ploughed up.
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