 Suspense and the producer of radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William and Robson. More often than not, a classic suffers in adaptation from one medium to another. The play you are about to hear is an exception. The late great writer-director Irving Reese has given a dimension to the story that the late great Charles Dickens never imagined when he wrote it almost a hundred years ago. It's just that you might find it interesting to read the Dickens story after listening to this, the re-stramatization of the signalman, starring Miss Ellen Drew. It had smashed by like a wounded monster screaming in pain and disappeared into the dark tunnel. In those brief seconds I had relived the emotions of my childhood. I still trembled with the child's terror and fascination that had surged through me the many times I stood here twenty years before. Nothing had changed, the steep dripping wet walls of jagged stone that led down to the tracks, the gloomy mouth of the tunnel, the small signalman's shack huddled against the side of the cutting. Even the job was held by the same man they told me in the village. He stood there in the glow of an angry sunset, furling a signal flag around a short pole. I called to him. Hello! Instead of looking up at me, he turned tensely to stare toward a red signal light that glowed at the mouth of the tunnel. Hello! I would like to speak to you. May I come down? He finally looked at me and silently pointed his flag to the path in the embankment. I climbed down quickly and walked toward him with a casual smile. He watched me suspiciously, almost fearfully. Hello! I'm Amy Sears. I'm sorry if I startled you when I called down. Why would you think that, Miss? Well, you stare at me as though you had a dread of me. Yes, Mr. I was doubtful whether I had seen you before. Well, if you have, it was when I was eight years old, standing on that bridge over the tunnel up there. I used to love watching the trains. Then my family moved to the city and this is my first visit back in 20 years. Well, you don't believe me. Well, I'm not certain. But where could you have seen me? Don't you know? I know, since I'd been away for 20 years. Up there, by the red signal light at the mouth of the tunnel. Oh, that's why you turned and stared there when I first called. Yes, Miss. Well, what would I be doing at the signal light? I don't know. I wish I... No, it's a mistake, Miss. What is it you wish to speak to me about? Well, I'm a writer. I wanted to interview you. Me? Why me, Miss? Well, my magazine does a weekly biographical piece on interesting people and unusual occupations. It's called Close-Up. Oh, it's Miss. I read them. Oh, you have? You seem surprised. Pleased, perhaps. That one so unsophisticated... Well, I didn't really mean it that way. Well, there's a bit of a fire in my shack. It'd be more comfortable for you there. Won't you come on in? Oh, thank you. Oh, how snug and comfortable. Most of my waking life is spent here and I've tried to make it pleasant. Ma, you have a fine collection of books. They've given me much companionship in the long nights. Pretty weighty companions. Gibbons, Decline and Fall, Burton's, Anatomy of Melancholy, Darwin's... Did they surprise you, Miss? Well, I can't help wondering why a man with a mind capable of absorbing these subjects would stay on a desolate job like this. Well, why would a pretty lady reporter come here for a story? There are many other places in people. Well, as I told you, I used to come here as a child and the trains frightened and fascinated me. I always remembered it vividly through the years. I promised myself that one day I would come back and do a story on it. Good subjects aren't easy to find, you know. Why did you choose just now to come? These ideas germinate in the writer's mind for a while and then an impulse... And you were drawn here? Well, you say that as though mystic forces were involved. It was much simpler, I assure you. I've been working hard and I decided that a few days in the country would do me good. I plan to use them profitably by doing a story on you. Oh, you might have come to that decision last month or last year. Well, that's true, but I can't see why you attacked such special... Why does the train frighten you so? Now, wouldn't you think I might outgrow that silly childish fear? If I was drawn here, as you say, I... I guess it was to see whether I had. The modern psychiatrist wouldn't say it was a desire to relive a childhood experience. Oh, yes, mister. Many answers. And philosophers have even speculated on the possibility that the future can include on the memory as well as the past. Surely you don't believe that. I believe only in the evidence of my five senses. May I ask, why did you go to the door? To check the tunnel light. Does it need to be checked so often? You did before we came in. Why are you staring at me like that? Oh, was I staring at you? Oh, please. Something is preying on your mind. Can't you tell me? The fire needs stirring. You're avoiding my question. You let me ask you a question. When the train passed just now, why did you suddenly throw your hands up to your eyes? Like this, it was all to shut out some dreadful sight. Why? It was that uncontrollable childish reaction, like I said. I felt as though the train would draw me out of here and onto the track. I covered my eyes like a child not to see it. And you had no feeling that the action was conveyed to you for some reason? No. Why should it? Because there's been someone at the red light at the mouth of the tunnel each night for a week now. Holding its hands up to its eyes like you did as though to shut out some terrible sight. And you have actually seen it? Oh, every night. Was it there just now when you went to the door? Yes, I saw it quite clearly. Who was it? You. We sat there for a long, breathless moment as the train roared off into the night, leaving only their singing rails to mark its passing. It was a moment of terror, until reason snapped me back to reality. But it's impossible. How can I be sitting here in your signal shack and be outside under the signal light at the same time? I don't know, Miss, but that's the way it seems to be. You were standing out there with your left arm across your face and waving your right arm violently as though to say, for God's sake, clear the way. Clear the way. You heard those words? I'm not certain, not about those specific words, but I've heard it called before. When? One moonlight night, about a year ago. I was sitting here when I heard a voice cry, hello, below there. Well, that's why you were startled when I used the same words from the top of the bank. Yes, Miss, I ran to the door and I looked out and I saw someone else standing up there by the red light near the tunnel, with arms as I just showed you. And the voice was hoarse, was shouting and it cried, hello, below there. Look out, look out. I caught up my lamp and I ran towards the figure calling, what's wrong? What's happened? Where? And when I got to the light, it was gone. Did you see where? The tunnel was the only place it could go without passing me. Well, I ran into the tunnel for a hundred yards or so and I searched around with my light and then I ran back here in a telegraph, both ways. Here's Miss, a telegraph. An alarm has been given, is anything wrong? The answer came back both ways, all as well. Of course, with that wind moaning through the tunnel and the wild harp it makes of the telegraph wires, it's understandable that you could have the illusion you heard a call. And anyone staring at the dark long enough, as you did from the door, could imagine seeing something. You've let it prey on your mind so long it seems real. I was not finished, Miss. I'm sorry. Within six hours after it first appeared, the main line flyer crashed and derailed at the far end of the tunnel. Within ten hours the dead and wounded were then brought through the tunnel over to the spot where the figure stood. Coincidence, a tragic, remarkable coincidence. But I can't see it. There is more, Miss. Please, forgive me. Six or seven months passed and I recovered from the surprise and was shocked when one morning, just as daylight was breaking, I looked toward the red light and I saw it again. Did it cry out? No, it was silent. And it didn't wave its arm. No, Miss. No, it leaned against the post with both hands covering the eyes. Like this, as though it had blot out some terrible sight. So that's why you asked me why I put my hands to my eyes when the first train passed. Oh, yes, Miss. You called out the words it used the first time and then you covered your eyes as it did the second time. Go on, please. You know, that very day as the train came out of the tunnel, I noticed a confusion of hands and heads at one of the coach platforms and something waving. And I saw it in time to flag down the engineer. He applied his brakes but the train drifted past here about a hundred yards. And as I ran up to it, I heard terrible screams and cries. A beautiful young woman had fallen between the cars and she was brought in here. And she died on this very spot between us. Oh, how horrible. But I still don't see how. One final word, Miss. And you judge how my mind is troubled. It came back a week ago and ever since it's been there. At the light? Yes, it covers its eyes, waves its arm, and it shouts for God's sake, clear the way, clear the way. I have no rest or peace for it. It calls to me many minutes together in an agonized manner. Below there, look out, look out. It stands waving at me and it sounds a telegraph ticker. Has it sounded the ticker since I've been here? Twice. I assure you it's your imagination. There has been no sound of the telegraph. I wonder that you failed to hear it, but I heard it. Do you hear it now? Yes. What is it saying? Well, it isn't clear. It only warns. It doesn't say against what. If I only knew I could warn him. But it doesn't say what is the danger. Where? There is danger somewhere on the line. Some terrible calamity will happen tonight and I can do nothing about it. Nothing. A very tortured signalman was the victim of hallucinations and delusions. The loneliness of his post and the tedium of his duties were certainly enough to derange anyone. But certainly a man of his intelligence could be convinced that it was only his mind playing tricks on him. Well, how can you say that in the face of what I just told you? Listen, you were positive when you first saw me that I was the specter you saw at the light, weren't you? You used the same word. I appealed to the intelligent, well-read, reasonable man. Three words. Hello, below there. I was more than a hundred feet away at the top of the embankment and you were here below with darkness falling and three words made you positive you had seen me before. Can't you see? You were trying to fit something to what you already believed. But then you put your hands to your eyes. Further proof. You put yourself to believe some disaster is about to befall. When I covered my eyes because of a childish fear you fitted that to what you already believed. Well, a telegraph ticker wasn't... You must hear me out. Would you at any other time or would anyone at any time believe that a telegraph ticker could sound in a room this small and be heard by one person and not another? I told you... And now the most important proof. You said that when you went to the door a while ago it was there by the red danger light. Yes, it was. Will you come to the door with me now and tell me if it is still there? Well, do you see it? No. No, Miss. It ain't there. Of course it isn't. And now I'm going to prove that it never was there. The post is at least seven feet high. The light is shielded with a hood. Even if a person stood directly under it or are in front of it they would be in complete shadow in darkness. You couldn't see that person from this door and you couldn't see that person if you walked to within a few yards of her or him or it. I'm going to walk up the incline to the light and prove it to you. I walked up the inclining tracks toward the red light at the mouth of the tunnel. The chilled dank wind had an edge like a cold knife. When I got to the light post I stood directly under it. No portion of the red glow reached me. I was lost completely in the dark. I saw the signalman silhouetted in the yellow light of the doorway. Hello? Can you see me? Hello below there? Can you see me? Good. Now start walking toward me and tell me when you can see me. You step between the rails of the northbound track on the line with the red signal light and walk toward me. Then suddenly the icy hand of my childhood dread gripped me. There was a vague vibration of the earthen air. Far behind him down the grade I could see the glow of the locomotive's light. Look out! He walked as though in a spell. He didn't hear me or wouldn't hear me. I was rooted to the gravel. I threw my left arm up to my eyes and waved my right arm frantically. Below there! Long after it was over they found me. Still standing there both of my hands up to my eyes to shut out the terrible sight. Suspense in which Helen Brugue starred in William M. Robeson's production of The Signalman by Charles Dickens. Adapted for radio by Curving Reese. The Signalman was played by Ben Wright. Sound patterns by Bill James and Tom Hanley. Listen. Listen again next week when we return with Miss Marie Wilson in Star Over Hong Kong. Another tale well calculated to keep you in. Suspense News, listen for Have Gun Will Travel on CBS Radio.