Gallagher's mate from behind shouted out a warning just a second too late.
With a sudden kick, Quest sent the revolver flying across the room, and
before the Irishman could recover, he struck him full in the face.
Notwithstanding his huge size and strength, Gallagher reeled. The
operator, who had just begun to realize what was happening, flung himself
bodily against the two thugs. A shot from the tangled mass of struggling
limbs whistled past Quest's head as he sprang to the window which
overlooked the track. The freight had already almost passed. Quest
steadied himself for a supreme effort, crawled out on to the little steel
bridge and poised himself for a moment. The last car was just beneath. The
gap between it and the previous one was slipping by. He set his teeth and
jumped on to the smooth top. For several seconds he struggled madly to
keep his balance. He felt himself slipping every minute down to the ground
which was spinning by. Then his right heel caught a bare ledge, scarcely
an inch high. It checked his fall. He set his teeth, carefully stretched
out his hand and gripped the back of the car. Then his knee touched
something--a chain. He caught it with his other hand. He lay there,
crouching, gripping wherever he could, his fingernails breaking, an
intolerable pain in his knee, death spinning on either side of him....
* * * * *
Back behind the tower, Red Gallagher and his mate bent with horrified
faces over the body of the signalman.
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