The Storm Demon

THE STORM DEMON By Richard Inscore I Outside the box-car station of Deely, on the Canyon Branch of the G. & C. Railroad, the elements were thickening; and, from one end of the great canyon to the other, the ominous rumblings of thunder were growling forth their warning of impending storm. A mid-Summer electrical storm in the big niche here was a thing of dread, too. In addition to being alone here in this stern-visaged gorge, Arthur Ellertson, the operator, was a coward. He was afraid of everything that appeared great which seemed to exist in opposition to his own personality, which, to those afraid, everything great or near- great seems to do. Arthur was a mental coward only. His physical self had often taken him through deeds of daring in his school days — on the campus and field — but his actions were invariably prompted by his mental self relaxing from their fearing vigil. Many a time the boy had rebuked himself roundly for this state .of mental affairs and many a time he had sternly resolved to crush this con- temptible foe, but always in the critical moment when nothing but mental valor would suffice, he failed — on the campus, on the field, in his studies — in everything. His father, John Ellertson, too. greatly abhorred this fact and had done all in his power to eliminate this condition from his son's nature. Numerous methodical attempts had failed and he had all but despaired of ever inhabiting that physical frame with the much desired, God-inspired quality — -mental valor. This last experiment was made in a desperate effort, both on John Ellertson's and his son's part. That explained the reason for this particular young man being on duty in the lonely box-car office perched upon the precipitous edge of the great canyon. Arthur had learned telegraphy to a sufficient degree to hold this par- ticular position, there being very little telegraphing to do — it being main- tained merely as an "OS" point and a watchman for the big trestle. So John Ellertson, the superintendent, had hit upon the idea of Arthur's going to work here nights- where he would be subjected to the great ghostly silence of the big niche and where he would have an opportunity to take hold of those nerves, so ragged and unreliable. A railroad man plying his profession along the gorge route required nerve, bravery, and self-reliance. Some day John Ellertson would not be railroading himself, and he very much wanted his son to be in line for the responsibility he would be compelled to cast aside. Which explanation takes us back to the lonely nerve-racked and fear-haunted operator. The station of Deely employed two operators — one who worked nights only, as bridge watchman and operator, and a pumpman who worked days and attended to the pumping and bridge watching. It was Art's duty to report No. 503 due to pass Deely at 10:54 p. m., and the several extras hauling ore from Apex to the smelters down at Ironton, the division point. Otherwise he had nothing to do but keep company with the great silence unbroken only by the rush of water far below which reached his ears but faintly. The box-car station was perched upon the end of the big trestle that spanned the side canyon, which ran at right angles from the main canyon back a few hundred yards, ending abruptly against a great towering wall. The bridge was fifty feet high, above the bed of the rocky gorge, and about

1046 IMPROVEMENT ERA one hundred and fifty feet in length. It was a massive construction, being' made solely of steel set upon mighty concrete pillars. On the whole this branch road was built at a tremendous cost, but the great riches it tapped more than paid for the construction. Great mines of rich ore were running at full blast up at Apex, the terminal. The car-body office of Deely station was jammed closely against the per- pendicular cliff at its rear, while the other end bordered as close as possible on the tracks, there being two of the latter, a passing track, and the main line, the former joining the latter just before it crossed the trestle. The great, gloomy canyon yawned sullenly and darkly just beyond the tracks. On the whole it was one of the most undesirable places a nervous man could find for an abode, and here Arthur Ellertson alternately paced the narrow confines of the tiny platform and track of the narrow room, or sat and sullenly regarded the clicking resonator bcligerently. He hated the noisy thing! Was it not this thing that he was held here to attend to? Was it not that rattling piece of mechanical impudence that made this grave-yard shift in this grave-yard spot necessary? To add to his discomfort and growing terror, the storm was rumbling louder and louder as the minutes passed. The hour was rapidly nearing dark- ness, and this added to the coming storm, his loneliness and his mental defi- ciency filled the boy with unspeakable dread. His face blanched and the haunted look deepened. He shivered in spite of his angry attempt to dispel the fear that was growing upon him. To those who do not know, the idea of a terrific electrical storm may mean little, but let them be practically shut in with one in a mighty yawning, craggy-toothed, ore-bearing gorge with only the storm for company, and they will appreciate Arthur's situation fully. II Not only was Arthur Ellertson afraid of the natural forces in this gloomy place, but some of the men down at the division yard had told him previous to his leaving for Deely that the canyon was a veritable nest of bandits, thieves, cut-throats and wild men. It had been in the spirit of hazing, so dear to the average railroad man- though they appeared highly sincere to their victim. Arthur did not believe this in particular, but often during some of his more gloomy moments he had found himself meditating upon what a stronghold this gorge would be for such. Now, with the kerosene lamp glowing fitfully from the telegraph table at the front end of the car- and the fast-approaching tempest-battle rumbling and snarling its way up the great canyon, Art prayed for company — some- one to talk to — someone to help dispel those shadows that lurked in 'the other end of the car and outside, racing before that dreaded storm — everywhere! He derived some comfort and companionship from the rattling resonator — much as he hated it. The instrument was almost constantly busy, being cut in on the main line wire that ran the other way from the Canyon Division point of Ironton. He needed practice in receiving and this was a chance he attempted to make the best of. But with the growl of thunder, the snapping wires and fitful lightning, which was going to increase a million times, approaching swiftly and surely, it was extremely hard to crowd those fears into the discard enough to keep his mind on the business of telegraphing. Arthur longed for the diversion of having a train pass — even the brief moment it would take to be gone, again, would relieve the dreadful strain somewhat. But it being Sunday, no extras were called out and only No. 503 would pass and that was not due until 10:54 p. m. It was just now ^rowing dark. There were several hours of this dreadful business ahead of him wherein he could do nothing but wait for the rumbling, roaring, howling storm to break and pass. He had never experienced a storm in the canyon, so could only vaguely

THE STORM DEMON 1047 guess what he was in for. He had often shivered with fear and nervousness down at the lower end when a storm was on, and often noticed that the main fury of the elements settled for a battle up in the big gorge. An enormous amount of iron ore, close to the surface and in several places actually protruding out of the mountainside in great ledges, seemed to draw the electrical elements and hold them playing fitfully and noisily its hideous game among the crags. Now he was virtually thrust in the midst of it — and alone! The pumpman-operator had gone up the canyon to Marx to attend the pump there, before the storm appeared, and would more than likely stay there until morning before returning to Deely. The operator at Marx was off duty but Art knew the pumpman would more than likely be in the office. But he was ashamed to call him in spite of his fear. So he dismissed the wild desire to call "MX" and beseech the pumpman to return. He shrugged his shoulders — thoroughly angry with himself for even contem- plating calling for assistance — moral assistance — such contemptible coward- ice! He was a fine specimen of a railroad man! One whose memory the G. & C. would honor long after he had retired — NOT! There is nothing that will make a man see himself as others see him like a little self-imposed sarcasm — not sarcasm from others — that angers a man, and in a case like Arthur's only further belittles his morals. But when a man roundly abuses himself, it takes effect. Anyway a man is more or less what he thinks himself and what he tells himself. But that rumbling storm was approaching — swiftly. It seemed on the verge of loosing its fury at any instant. In spite of his sarcasm to himself. Art was afraid. There was no use saying he was not. He was scared! He strode outside to the little platform, peering fearfully out over the black void just beyond the track. He searched the canyon walls and crevices with haunted eyes in the lightning-pierced gloom, and in his heart was the fear instilled there by the tongues of those whose ideas of wit were so badly distorted. Bandits, cut-throats, wild men! Art's better judgment gave this fear the lie. but let anyone be put in a like position with ,a raging, mountain electric storm upon him. and all he has ever heard that is fearful will come back a thousand-fold to taunt him from the terror-shadows, no matter how preprosterous the idea is in a man's saner moments — and his "better judgment" is usually absent. Also it was very doubtful if John Ellertson had exactly the right idea in attempting to cure cowardice by such methods — but then, perhaps John Ellertson did not take the elements into consideration. And — perhaps he was right — Old John had lived his day well. Arthur walked back into the office and slipped the resonator plug into the jack and cut in on the noisy, main-line wire. He could hear the dispatcher down at Ironton working with some office far down the line in the opposite direction. He was putting out a slow order on account of some bad track which had been endangered by flood waters from the passing storm which was on its way up the canyon now. No. 210 was not to exceed five miles per hour between mile post 310 and bridge 213-7, while all other trains were annulled with the exception of a work-train extra which was to protect against No. 210. This stuff did not interest Arthur in particular, but he had spent a few minutes listening to an operator repeat the order and the dispatcher's completion of it. It helped to relieve the strain a little. Then the storm broke. It crashed upon the canyon walls with a force that threatened to raze them utterly. Arthur felt the car body shake violently, and the wires cracked and spat viciously, sending out a tongue of flame from the switchboard half way across the room. He was terror stricken, his face turned a sickly green while the inside of his mouth felt like dry ashes. His was the abject terror pf a coward, An old head would not have paid much attention to the

1048 IMPROVEMENT ERA leaping flame, but Art was not an old head, besides he was afraid, mortally afraid. Then taking hold of his nerves again, he mumbled some more of the scathing sarcasm, but it had little effect, other than to bring his will to match his ragged nerves. But the power of the human will is marvelous in its resistance to conditions of the less powerful and more flighty system of nerves that holds the body together, and before long Art was sitting calmly enough, with little beads of perspiration oozing from his every pore, as for outward appearance, but his heart beat with the energy of a trip hammer. This was an ideal night for deviltry, with the very elements playing into the devil's hands — bandits, cut-throats, wild men! The blinding flashes of lightning kept the canyon walls almost constantly illuminated by the fitful glare from the crags where it played. The thunder made a hideous din which ricochetted from peak to peak and from wall to wall in its maddening noise. It was truly a turmoil of mighty forces with their mighty, terrifying voices raging at each other in the steep confines of the mighty can- yon. It was a thing to tax the most placid set of nerves in existence — and Art's nerves were anything but placid. Then rain set in. Great bursts of drenching downpours seemed to attempt the annihilation of the little car body by submersion. So hard did the downpour belabor the shanty that Arthur could feel the spray from the drops as they beat their way through the none too tight roof. The wires were spitting viciously with each flash of lightning and the vivid flames that jumped from the switchboard kept the interior of the office lighted much better than the kerosene lamp had been doing, though infinitely more terrifying. Ill Still the great fear of the dark canyon and seen and unseen dangers persisted in mocking the operator. In the flares of lightning that were play- ing so devilishly among the peaks. Art imagined all sorts of hideous shapes and terrible figures. His tortured nerves were simply nearing the breaking point and he had to get a mighty command to his will to keep from going utterly to pieces. Down under a black crag whereon the jagged flashes were most vivid, he imagined he saw a great shrouded figure crouching under the shelter of the cliff to escape the fury of the storm. Then at the top of the cliff, Tie could see a great, ghostly form playing with the lightning in its hideous game. It was chasing the flashes among the crags, to be chased itself, in turn, back into space to hang over the canyon. His terrified imagination pictured the inferno as a final torturing place for lost souls, as he had often heard fanatic exhortcrs prate about. This would not do. His nerves were getting control of his will. This would NEVER do! Curse those nerves! He — His attention was jerked back to the wires and he was thankful for the interruption. It was the dispatcher calling his office: "DE-DE-DE-DS-DE-DE-DE-DS— " Arthur mechanically opened the key and tapped his answer: "I — DE." But the dispatcher continued to call when he had again closed the key. He tried again to answer with the same success. He was out of adjustment. He attempted to "pull up" on his relay, but when he had tightened the spring, he only weakened the dispatcher's calling and could not "break" him yet. Arthur's apprehensions were none relieved when he realized the difficulty was in the dispatcher's office, or something was wrong with the wire between Deely and there. In either case he was helpless. Unless the dispatcher adjusted his instruments or the wire was cleared wherever the trouble was, he would be practically isolated until the storm was over.

THE STORM DEMON 1049 Art heard the dispatcher asking Ahern, the operator at Apex, if No. 503 was out, and the operator answered in the affirmative: "OS-OS-No. 503 eng. 2101, engr. O'Rourke. out 8:01 p. m. with Supt's. car and 10 loads — X." "O. K., unless I can get that ham at DE to ans., they're in for a dangerous ride." \ "Yes, looks like a bad storm down that way — bet DE scared to death," laughed Ahern, the old timer. "O. K., try him on No. 10, pis.," said the dispatcher. "DE-DE-DE-X-DE — X," called Ahern. Art had cut in on wire number ten when the dispatcher had told Apex to advise him to. Now he broke in and, leaning close to the reasonator to hear it above the raging storm, answered Apex : "I-I-I-DE." "GA, ans. DS," said Ahern shortly. (Go ahead, answer dispatcher.) "Tell hm adj — can't bk hm," (Tell him can't adjust — can't break him) answered Art, for the moment forgetting the roaring elements and his terror. \ "O. K." answered Ahern understandingly, cutting back to the train wire, "to DS — GA adj he's tr." (Go ahead adjust he is there.) This brought results and in a few seconds the dispatcher was putting out an order at Deely to No. 503 to proceed very slowly from Deely to Ironton on account of soft track and high water. After numerous inter- ruptions, Art began repeating the order. The dispatcher had grown tired of repeating words for the "ham" and slipped in a few very cutting remarks about hams in general. This served to unnerve Art further and his repeating was almost as bad as his receiving. He could imagine old Ahern up there at Apex laughing his contempt for the same thing the dispatcher was cursing at. A superintendent's son was in for no comrtesy as long as he was a "ham" and out on the road. He was just an ordinary "ham" and that was all. Then something happened. When things happen in a terrific electrical storm among the crags and peaks of an ore-laden canyon wall, it happens suddenly and on a gigantic scale. Arthur was in the middle of a word in repeating the slow order when a report louder and more terrifying than any he had yet heard crashed upon his ears, nearly deafening him. The frightful noise was quickly followed by another roaring, more terrible in its import than the thunder. It was a grinding, seething, crashing mass of the very canyon wall tumbling in the gorge. Paralyzed with fright, Art only sat still and waited. Then the car- body was tossed and wrenched, falling into a shapeless mass about his ears. Art was thrown to the floor and lapsed into unconsciousness. A mighty cloudburst had plunged into the side canyon, over which the bridge spanned, carrying destruction before it. The Storm Demon's bared teeth had struck. How long he lay prone, Arthur had no way of knowing just then. The kerosene lamp had been extinguished — luckily without conflagration — and the wires were nowhere to be heard. What had happened? He felt so tired and drowsy — he must rest again — but — , he clambered to his feet quickly, dizzily. No. 503 was coming and his father's car was hooked on the rear end. He had heard Ahern say that. He must stop them, it was the dispatcher's order — the track was dangerous below here. But — what had wrecked his office? He must find out. Gone was the fear and gone was the ragged set of nerves. He was cool and collected now and figured each step slowly. He must get a lantern and go out and flag No. 503. Then he remembered the wrecking of the office and decided something must be wrong close. Oh yes, the thunder clap — the other roaring — . The storm was still raging madly, but Art paid no attention to it

1050 IMPROVEMENT ERA now. There was something bigger to attend to — something he did not yet know what it was. In the few minutes that had just passed and the few that ensued, Arthur Ellertson grew up — grew into a real man, grimly defiant, fearless and strong! With the weak and fitful light of the lantern playing around close to him, he surveyed the havoc that greeted his eyes. Due to the position of the car-body office, perched upon the end of the trestle which spanned the deep side canyon, the catastrophe which followed the terrific thunder-clap had evidently been the cause of wrecking the station. A piece of the falling roof had been responsible for his unconsciousness and the ache he now had in his head. He cautionsly walked farther in the direction of the trestle and stopped, his blood running cold with horror — not fear, he was not afraid now — the fitful flashes of the erstwhile dreaded lightning now aided him in determining the extent of the damage wrought. His lantern was practically useless insofar as it illuminated any distance. But the unabated, jagged-tongued lightning showed the boy that the entire span of trestle was broken in two and at the bottom of the gorge raged a roaring torrent! He could see the twisted and broken girders still spanning the canyon, but all the ties and track had been torn away, falling into, the bottom of the gorge, which was now a seething, swirling maelstrom of debris- filled water. This was not the worst of it, either. No. 503 was soon due, he found his watch, which luckily had been in his pocket instead of on the table where he usually kept it. It was now ten thirty-seven and No. 503 was due at ten fifty-four. He bad lain in the stupor following the catastrophe longer than he had thought. He remembered 503 leaving Apex on time and that there was no other station open between here and there. This was a perfectly natural cause for panic to a ragged-nerved man, but Arthur Ellertson was no such man — now. He set to work to figure out something plausible to do. He could signal his head off from this distance, but it would have no effect upon the 503, as it turned a sharp curve just before it took the trestle, and after it left the curve it would be too late to signal. Something else had to be done. The wires were gone, of course. They went when the office did. They would do no good, anyway, there were no offices open above here. The 503 would be past the last office now at that. No, he had to stop tthem himself — and he had to stop them before they reached that broken trestle. And the raging, roaring hell of water was between him and No. 503! He walked to the twisted and shapeless mass of bent iron and steel that used to be the trestle and calmly planned a way of crossing. The main bulk of the trestle was now below the raging flood where it had been thrown with the terrific impact of the cloudburst. It is strange, yet true, how insignificant great things look to the) man who must do them. How mighty he feels himself over the object of his opposition when he really makes up his mind he is going to, and must ac- complish a certain end. Such a feeling was in Arthur Ellertson's breast. He was the mighty / will and the mighty / must. The shapeless death-pit below him was merely an inanimate, helpless, insignificant barrier to what he was now going: to do! It would be conquered — it must be conquered! I Still the storm raged. It howled forth its defiance to the mighty cliffs and crags which stood sullen and silently mighty against its mad attacks. It was a howling, screeching, seething turmoil of Nature's mightiest forces doing deadly battle. The elements had won their first blood with the tearing away of a portion of one of those lightning-drawing cliffs far above the trestle. The lightning had attacked with its destroying ally, the cloud- burst, close upon -its heels. The result was a mighty cliff shaken loose and the great downpour kept it seething on its destructive way into the main canyon, there to tear its ominous way toward the open country below. The. Storm Demon had left his tooth mark upon the age-old canyon wall.

THE STORM DEMON 1051 IV I Lashing the nearly useless lantern to his back, Arthur carefully felt his way out on one of those twisted girders and decided it would support his weight. Anyway he was going to try it — it meant life or a horrible death to those coming behind the unsuspecting engine of No. 503. Of course, the trip across that raging torrent would be perilous in the extreme, but he was only one man where that train was carrying several, among them his father's private car, and who besides his father was on that car he did not know. It had gone up while he was off duty and slept . After satisfying himself that the lantern would hold and that he had matches to light it with when he crossed the gorge, Art climbed over the edge of the last hanging tie and clutched the slim iron girder that spanned the gap. Below him the raging torrent roared in its fury and above him the elements roared in theirs, while the terrific battle continued among the crags. It was truly the devil's own night — a night of fearful things; of ghostly shadows in the fitful lightning glare and a night for death and pillage. But Arthur Ellertson saw or realized none of these things, now. He was on a mission that demanded quick, steady action, and he must not falter — at the price of those lives approaching on No. 503. Setting his jaws grimly and glaring defiantly down into the torrent, he swung out over the flood and began wending his torturous way toward the opposite side. Aboard the private car of Superintendent John Ellertson, hooked on behind the rock train. No. 503, a white-faced man paced the narrow con- fines of the luxurious car. His lips were set grimly and his eyes were haunted by a tugging dread. He was alone. John Ellertson had been a fool! He realized it now — fully. He could feel in his own heart the terror his son must now be in and the cruelty he had imposed upon him when he had sent him to Deely. He knew, and was sorry, that the boy was afraid — for that matter the kid was a coward, but he was his son for all that, and it was a hideous trick to send him to that lonely, God-forsaken place, even with the hope of curing that set of nerves — or plain cowardice, if you wish. This was a night of unnamed terrors lurking in every shadowy crag and cliff and the roaring din of the terrific storm was truly a manifestation of dreadful things. Even in John Ellertson's long career of railroading along the gorge, he had never witnessed anything so terrific, so furious as this storm had been, and even he shuddered. Now he was hurrying down the crooked track toward Deely to relieve the boy of the dreadful ordeal. He had been too cruel, even in the case of the kid's abject cowardice. But John Ellertson did not know the circumstances of his son's personal doings just then, if he had known, he might have felt vastly different. Neither did he guess the frightful danger he was unwittingly running into. ****** Below the swinging form of the boy, the flood waters still raged and their close proximity he felt, rather than saw, or heard. It was practically impossible to distinguish any sound in particular, so great was the din of the elements. But he knew those raging waters, debris-filled, werte licking perilously close to his dangling feet. It only added to the strength of his jaws as they clamped against each other in their iron determination. Again and again his eyes matched the lightning, flashing defiantly into the black darkness about him, when the flashes were stilled for the space of seconds only. It was Arthur Ellertson, the man, fighting grimly and terribly the opposing elements. It was Arthur Ellertson, the man, who was going across that hell- flood to rescue lives in dire peril, and it was Arthur Ellertson, the man, who had conquered his worst opponent already — his fear and his nerves. How insignificant, stupid, childish they seemed just then! In a blinding flash of lightning, Art saw the other side of the shaking .span drawing nearer. He was nearly across. His hands hurt terribly. The

1052 IMPROVEMENT ERA girder, in places jagged and rending, had torn his fingers and blood was trickling down his wrists into his face as he looked up, but he clinched his teeth tighter and wormed his way on. In his heart was a savage joy that put to shame his tortured, pain-racked, physical self. Within four feet of the hanging tie which marked the landing Arthur paused an instant to rest. Above the constant roar of the thunder, he thought, with his blood running cold, that he heard, indistinctly, the screech of 503's whistle. Summoning all his waning strength, he clambered as fast as possible toward the hanging tie. He was not to know that deadly peril hung there with the tie. With a grateful heave, Arthur reached out for the tie and swung his weight to it, releasing the girder. The timber had been hanging by a couple of spikes only and the sudden weight of the boy broke these. Tie and boy fell headlong toward the seething cauldron at the bottom of the gorge. Still John Ellertson paced the floor of the car. Still the beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, cold and qlammy, seemingly the hand of an evil ghost was clutching at his heart. He had been, cruel, cruel'. Perhaps even now the boy might be lying dead at the bottom of the gorge, where his panic carried him in an attempt to escape his terror. Such things could happen and often did in extreme cases — such as Arthur's. They were nearing Deely now, however, for this he was much relieved. He would soon be with the kid, anyway. He could hear O'Rourke whistling for the curves that wound around in and out among the cliffs before crossing the trestle into Deely's box-car station. Overhead, the storm had abated slightly, insofar as the terrible din went, but the lightning still played over the dripping cliffs and crags. The downpour of rain had also slackened a little. It seemed that, knowing what they did, the elements were pausing to watch the ghastly performance so closely impending below. But John Ellertson was not to know the object of their interest just yet. Neither was O'Rourke at the throttle of the 503 able to predict what rounding that final curve that led out on the trestle would mean. ****** Luckily, Arthur's fall had only been for a few feet, due to the fact that the hanging tie was close to the cliff where the bridge took the gorge. The falling timber had struck him a terrific blow on the head, but aside from a splitting headache and a splintery gash left there, which filled his eyes with blood, he was unhurt. He could still move and — yes, he could stand on his feet and walk. He pawed his way again up toward that girder that swung but a few feet above him. The slackening of the lightning made seeing his way im- possible only during the less frequent flashes. But No. 503 was coming and he must hurry. He was directly in the path where the engine would plunge upon him, but he never thought of that. He must save that train — the men' — -his father! Again he set his jaws in an iron grip and his noble will responded faithfully. How he gloried in the power of that will! How infinitely great, masterful, infallible he felt! It takes the storms of life to show up one's self sometimes. His clutching hands closed over the protruding edge of the girder once more and he heaved with all his strength, upward. The pull brought him safely above the remaining part of the track and bridge to the ground. How grateful he felt for the sensation of having solid ground underneath his feet once more! He reeled from fatigue and torture, but his mind -continued to function properly and he could hear the wheels of 503 grinding around the sharp curve! Then the boy did something that would tax the greatest will on earth to do. He calmly felt in his pocket for a match, found one, unslung the lantern slowly and surely without wasting a single movement, raised the

THE STORM DEMON 1053 top, inserted the lighted match quickly to keep the rain from extinguishing it. held it to the wick and when it was lighted, replaced the top of the lantern calmly. All this had really taken but a couple of seconds, but his movements had been true and sure. The old saying of "Haste makes Waste" was whis- pering itself into his brain and his wonderful will had acted accordingly. When the lantern was lighted and the 503 coming closer, Arthur broke into a run toward the oncoming train. Hardly had hei reached the mouth of the curving cut when the engine loomed up big and terrible before him. He swung the lantern frantically, yelling at the top of his voice. But it seemed that the storm again took up where it left off and the din drowned his voice utterly. His words were simply unavailing. O'Rourke was on the job, however, and had seen the light signal of danger. He jammed the air on, bringing the heavy rock train to a full stop within fifty feet of the broken bridge. Arthur realized his lantern was out and that the train was safe — and his father was safe. The sudden reaction was too much and without a sound he crumpled up on the wet mud of the cut and lay still. Faintly, seemingly from a far distance, came the sound of voices, and faintly came the decreasing din of the storm, which had played itself out with such success at destruction in the canyon. But it was the voices that kept intruding upon Art's returning consciousness. Where were they? Who were they? And what did they mean by so much excitement? "As Oi was a tellin' ye, Misther Ellertson, Oi see a light a fly in' acrost the' track an' took th' hunch an' pulled th' air — an' a mighty good thing Oi did — but where th' man wint that signalled me, Oi dunno — seems t' bin swallered up." It was O'Rourke, the engineer, speaking excitedly, grate- fully. Arthur smiled painfully to himself. Then another voice broke in anxiously: "It must have been the pumpman. He was at Marx before dark, and probably was returning when he found the broken trestle — but where is he?" They had paused in front of the engine and Arthur could see them in the glare of the headlight, trying to decide what move to take. He turned his wavering steps toward them. With exclamations of varying degrees of surprise, the men recognized their savior. The big engineer was profuse in his greeting. Great tears of gratitude and homage were failing unashamed. But the look of surprise, joy and worshipfulness in John Ellertson's eyes more than made up for the torture of that hideous climb and the terrors of the canyon storm. Full realization came to his eyes as he measured his son from head to foot — from blood-streaming head to his torn and bleeding hands and his muddy and torn clothes. He saw his son — A MAN! "Great God of all that is powerful and sacred — I — I — thank — thee!" he prayed fervently, joyfully. Arthur smiled softly, himself joyful, over the three bowed heads. Nephi, Utah. Today Live today, do not wait for tomorrow. Lift up thine eyes to the eternal stars. And with joy follow them in their travels From the East to the West. Sing with the birds ; Laugh through life with the rivers; dance with The sunlight, and, as nature must weep, Weep with the rain, but smile with the rainbow. Live today, and seek for treasures around You. and you will find Acres of Diamonds. Leave the future to God and you will find Your tomorrows have changed to yesterdays. College Hill, Logan, Utah. ELLEN HOGENSON.