The first word of it came over the wire from Bleak House Station a little before midnight, while he and the agent were playing cribbage.

Pink-cheeked little Gunn, agent, operator, and one-third of the total population of Hymers, had lifted a peg to make a count when his hand stopped in mid-air, and with a gasping break in his voice he sprang to his feet.
The instrument on the little table near the window was clicking frantically.

It was Billinger, at Bleak House, crying out for headquarters, clear lines, the right of way.

The Transcontinental-- engine, tender, baggage car, two coaches and a sleeper, had gone to the devil.

Those, in his excitement, where his first words.