he said suddenly.
“What about ’em?” said Mac.
“When we go off the track, the car we’re in will bury itself and stop—but the rails on those flatcars won’t! They’ll break their chains and keep right on sliding forward. Two carloads of steel rails. They’ll spill all the way through this old wooden day coach like a couple of hundred half-ton lances.”
Smitty began fighting his bonds with renewed fury. And then Benson’s quiet voice sounded over the uproar of the speeding work train.
“Mac, are your legs free?”
“Yes, they’re free.”
“Then,” said Benson, “put your feet against the back of my seat, if you can, and push me as far forward toward Smitty’s seat as you’re able.”
They were seated in line, first Smitty, then Benson, then MacMurdie. The gang had bound them to the backs of the three seats, but hadn’t bothered with their legs. Why should they? A man can’t untie himself with his feet.
But the gang had neglected to search the three from the knees down, as well as up, for weapons. Which proved that they were quite unfamiliar with at least one of The Avenger’s armament habits.
Benson habitually wore, in a slim holster strapped to his right calf, the small, special, silenced .22 pistol which he called, with grim affection, Mike. Strapped to the other calf was a needle-like throwing knife with a light, hollow tube for a handle, which was designated Ike.
Now, the man with the white, dead face and the death pools of eyes had managed to draw his left leg up enough to get the handle of razor-sharp Ike in his fingers.
Benson couldn’t cut himself free—he hadn’t that much leeway of motion. But he could cut the giant Smitty loose if he could lean forward enough to reach the ropes where they wound around the back of Smitty’s seat.
And the seats of the day coach were standard, in that they could be tilted forward to reverse the seating arrangement when the end of a run had been reached.
Mac put his huge feet against the back of Benson’s seat and shoved. Benson and seat back and ropes all shifted forward. Ike’s sharp edge almost touched Smitty’s lashings.
“More,” said Benson.
The Scot shoved harder. Benson drew his lithe body in on itself at the waist, and the knife touched.
The blade had bitten only half through the key loop when Smitty’s giant muscles suddenly completed the task by snapping the rest. He burst free and stood up.
A powerful thrust freed Benson, and another did for MacMurdie. Then the three stared out the front door of the car in the direction in which they were speeding, and Smitty’s great hands clenched.
The work train was almost on the curve the gang leader had mockingly mentioned.
The roadbed hugged the lake shore here as it did in most of its length. The water was about twenty feet down, over a sand bluff which formed a natural breakwater to keep the track from being washed out during storms.
A little ahead, the track curved sharp right, to follow a similar curve of the beach. And the work train, roaring over the rails, could not possibly make that turn. It would plow straight ahead, over the twenty-foot drop and into the. lake.
“Whoosh!” cried Mac. “We’ll have to jump—”
But a leap from the train at that great speed would be as deadly as staying on it and being plunged on and on into the lake.
They couldn’t jump off and they couldn’t stay on.
It is the main characteristic of great leaders that in times of catastrophe, other men, who might be brilliant and capable themselves, look to them for direction.
Mac and Smitty looked at their ice-eyed chief that way now. And without faltering Benson answered. His face, unable to change expression even at such a time of crisis as this, was a fearful, dead mask. His eyes were like cold gray flames. But his voice was quite calm.
“Top of the car. Fast! At the last moment, jump to the side as far as possible.”
Mac and Smitty leaped to obey even though, for a few seconds,
“What about ’em?” said Mac.
“When we go off the track, the car we’re in will bury itself and stop—but the rails on those flatcars won’t! They’ll break their chains and keep right on sliding forward. Two carloads of steel rails. They’ll spill all the way through this old wooden day coach like a couple of hundred half-ton lances.”
Smitty began fighting his bonds with renewed fury. And then Benson’s quiet voice sounded over the uproar of the speeding work train.
“Mac, are your legs free?”
“Yes, they’re free.”
“Then,” said Benson, “put your feet against the back of my seat, if you can, and push me as far forward toward Smitty’s seat as you’re able.”
They were seated in line, first Smitty, then Benson, then MacMurdie. The gang had bound them to the backs of the three seats, but hadn’t bothered with their legs. Why should they? A man can’t untie himself with his feet.
But the gang had neglected to search the three from the knees down, as well as up, for weapons. Which proved that they were quite unfamiliar with at least one of The Avenger’s armament habits.
Benson habitually wore, in a slim holster strapped to his right calf, the small, special, silenced .22 pistol which he called, with grim affection, Mike. Strapped to the other calf was a needle-like throwing knife with a light, hollow tube for a handle, which was designated Ike.
Now, the man with the white, dead face and the death pools of eyes had managed to draw his left leg up enough to get the handle of razor-sharp Ike in his fingers.
Benson couldn’t cut himself free—he hadn’t that much leeway of motion. But he could cut the giant Smitty loose if he could lean forward enough to reach the ropes where they wound around the back of Smitty’s seat.
And the seats of the day coach were standard, in that they could be tilted forward to reverse the seating arrangement when the end of a run had been reached.
Mac put his huge feet against the back of Benson’s seat and shoved. Benson and seat back and ropes all shifted forward. Ike’s sharp edge almost touched Smitty’s lashings.
“More,” said Benson.
The Scot shoved harder. Benson drew his lithe body in on itself at the waist, and the knife touched.
The blade had bitten only half through the key loop when Smitty’s giant muscles suddenly completed the task by snapping the rest. He burst free and stood up.
A powerful thrust freed Benson, and another did for MacMurdie. Then the three stared out the front door of the car in the direction in which they were speeding, and Smitty’s great hands clenched.
The work train was almost on the curve the gang leader had mockingly mentioned.
The roadbed hugged the lake shore here as it did in most of its length. The water was about twenty feet down, over a sand bluff which formed a natural breakwater to keep the track from being washed out during storms.
A little ahead, the track curved sharp right, to follow a similar curve of the beach. And the work train, roaring over the rails, could not possibly make that turn. It would plow straight ahead, over the twenty-foot drop and into the. lake.
“Whoosh!” cried Mac. “We’ll have to jump—”
But a leap from the train at that great speed would be as deadly as staying on it and being plunged on and on into the lake.
They couldn’t jump off and they couldn’t stay on.
It is the main characteristic of great leaders that in times of catastrophe, other men, who might be brilliant and capable themselves, look to them for direction.
Mac and Smitty looked at their ice-eyed chief that way now. And without faltering Benson answered. His face, unable to change expression even at such a time of crisis as this, was a fearful, dead mask. His eyes were like cold gray flames. But his voice was quite calm.
“Top of the car. Fast! At the last moment, jump to the side as far as possible.”
Mac and Smitty leaped to obey even though, for a few seconds,
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