Argosy All-Story Weekly, January 21, 1922 — page 62: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

52 This personal and sartorial description is given to indicate that Shelby was no slouch. It is rather pat, for Shelby had something coming to him that was to jar his serene young life; and the reader can judge for himself how fit our hero was to buck trouble. Of course, he wasn’t really a hero. He was just a healthy youngster who pounded brass for a living, ate and slept well, and liked a good time. He was lucky in that he chose innocent and clean good times. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so husky or have had that pink glow of health in his cheeks. He finished that cheek and half of his chin, and then he stopped with his razor poised. The despatcher was calling him. He stood a moment, hoping the despatchér would desist till he had removed the last ted whisker; but the despatcher refused to desist. In fact, he was showing impa- tience which, Shelby knew by the way the call was snapped out, would presently grow into anger. Shelby said “ Hell!” under his breath. He was not more profane than most men, but the provocation now was great. “What the Sam Hill does he want?” he muttered. “I’ve O.S.’d everything, and there isn’t a train near enough for him to want to put out an order here. Oh, well.” He put down the razor and opened the key and answered. “ Sigs on 187,” said the despatcher. Shelby opened his key and_ blankly stared at it. Then his eyes ran along the table. He had no sigs to give the des- patcher; he hadn’t had an order for any- thing in the last two hours. Before he had started to shave he had made out the transfer for the first-trick man, and it showed nothing on hand. He might have been expected to tell the despatcher that, but the situation was not so simple. If the despatcher wanted sigs, he must think that Shelby had recently de- livered an order. There was only one train to which he could have delivered it, and that was the first 88. The 88 had pound- ed into the east fifteen minutes before, past Shelby’s clear block. Certainly he had had nothing for her. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “What?” he asked, and closed his key. “Sigs on order 187 for first 88,” the despatcher said in detail. Shelby opened his key with a hand that was suddenly unsteady. He rumpled his red hair with his other hand, and again he stared along the table. Had he taken an or- der for the 88? Let him think. No, he had not. Darnation, there was the book of flimsy as he had made it up when he had delivered an order at five o’clock to a west- bound. He hadn’t touched that book since. He’d swear to that. “‘T didn’t have anything for the 88,” he said. The despatoher said no more to him. He began to hammer out the call for the second station east of Shelby’s. The operator answered almost at once. “Tt 89 by tr?” the despatcher asked. “O.S., second 89 by six fifty,” the oper- ator reported. There was another office between Shel- by’s and the office which had just reported the 89 by. But there was no third-trick man there. From eleven in the evening till seven in the morning the office was closed. The first-trick man came on duty at seven. Shelby understood the situation readily enough. The 89 undoubtedly had a time or meet order with the 88 at this station. The despatcher thought he had put out the order to the 88 at Shelby’s station. The 89 was now coming west on the 88’s time, and the 88 was orderless. Unless that first- trick man showed up right on the dot the two trains were likely to hit each other on the nose,-somewhere in his vicinity. The sounder was singing now. The des- patcher pounded out the call with increas- ing nervousness, signing his own call every two or three seconds. Shelby sat back and looked at the clock. A feeling of helplessness, shot through with a sense of impending disaster, weighed him down. The clock marked six fifty-eight. He watched the minute-hand crawl up to seven, and then to a minute past seven. And then the operator answered his call. ‘‘ Kighty-eight in sight yet?” the des- patcher asked. “Gone,” the operator said. just as I got here.”’ “ Went by comicloool C©