chair, listening intently to every word as it came from the telegraph sounder. It was the agent at Allenburg, the first station north, calling the dispatcher's office at Pittsburg. There was no night operator at Allenburg, and Mercedes knew at once that something was wrong. Clasping her hands, she waited.
"No. 49 and 40 came together just south of here; both engines demolished."
"Any one hurt?" came the question which is always asked first at a time like this.
"Yes," replied the agent at Allenburg, who had been awakened by the train crews to report the wreck; "three men killed, five badly injured. Conductor Long asks for extra surgeons at once. Only one in this town."
Poor Mercedes Morris! She was wringing her hands frantically and crying in anguish as she paced the floor of her office.
"Oh, how did that train ever pass the red light?" she moaned. "Three killed! Oh, isn't it awful! I wonder who the poor fellows are?"
The next hour was a busy one for her, and she had little time to pay any attention to what was being said on the "side wires" by the other operators, who talked of the wreck. Orders and long messages of importance kept the "train wire" clicking. At the end of that time she was in such a state of nervous excitement that she nearly collapsed. But the words
