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What was there left for him to do? He jotted down thirty-three's orders. The glow to the north intensified, swung slightly to the left as thirty-three took the siding. But she had to hurry. The special was whistling closer too close. Thirty-three's locomotive grumbled abreast of him. Something tugged at his coat. "Papa! Won't you come quick to mama?" The dark, heavy cars slipped by.
Tolliver with an increasing anxiety continued to examine the yellow slips. "And thirty-three's late, and still losing." Joe nodded. "Makes it sort of uncertain." "Seems to me," Tolliver said, "you might have mentioned it." "Maybe," Joe sneered, "you'd like me to stay and do your job." He went down the stairs and slammed the lower door.
From far to the south drifted a fainter sibilation, like an echo of thirty-three's whistle. To the north a glow increased. The snowflakes there glistened like descending jewels. It was cutting it too close. It was vicious to crush all that responsibility on the shoulders of one ignorant man, such a man as himself, or Joe. What good would it do him to kill Joe now?
Tolliver closed the window and picked up thirty-three's orders. If he had kept the revolver here he could have prevented Joe's leaving the tower. Why had Sally locked it in the cupboard? At least it was there now. Tolliver found himself thinking of the revolver as an exhausted man forecasts sleep. Someone ran swiftly up the stairs. It was the engineer of thirty-three, surprised and impatient.
Slowly, inch by inch, it crept back, each man pushing the next flat against the wall with might and main, while the multitudes in the street held their breath, and the very engines stopped panting, until all were safe. John Rush is a fireman to-day, a member of "Thirty-three's" crew in Great Jones Street. He was an insurance patrolman then. The organization is unofficial.
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