. . . Look!"
The big practical workman suddenly realized what the girl meant.
He stooped over and began to flash his torch along the end of the
ties. We crowded against him. Every one of the spike holes, for
the entire length of the rail, was straight and clean. The man
seized one of the spikes and scrutinized it under his torch.
Then he stood up. For a moment he did not speak. He merely
looked at Marion. "It's the holy truth!" he said. "Somebody
pulled these spikes with a clawbar. That weakened the rail, and
she bowed out when the engine struck her."
Then he turned around, and shouted down the track to his crew.
"Hey, boys! Spread out along the right of way and see if you
can't find a claw-bar. The devils that do these tricks always
throw away their tools."
We stood together in a little tragic group. The old peasant
woman came over to where I stood, she walked with a dead, wooden
step. "Contessa," she whispered, her old lips against my hand.
"You will save him?"
And suddenly with a wild human resentment, I longed to cut a way
out of the trap of this Fatality; to force its ruthless decree
into a sort of equity, if I could do it.
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