“Hell! I was too slow!” muttered Hopkins. “Damn that brakeman. He had a yellow streak a mile wide. Oh, to hell with the train. I've got to get out of this.”

He plunged into the darkness under the train as the whistle screamed and the bell clanged. He kept close to the wheels, hoping that the engineer would not shut off the steam. A glance across the ties reassured him on that score—the wheels still turned and the train was slowing down.

The night was black as Erebus. Hopkins kept running, and when he came even with the train again and was opposite the express car he slowed down. There he halted, waiting in great dread. He had to wait till the bell and whistle stopped, and that was what bothered him. But that, too, finally happened and he stole noiselessly along the train again.

Hopkins ran along the top of the car—swift, nervous, stealthy, wary—and in an instant he got up on the step of the express car and, drawing open the door, slipped into the car.

He made his way to the front of the car. The passengers were mostly men, and every one of them was asleep except a few nearest to the front of the car. Hopkins took one look at them and felt he need not fear anything from them. A couple of women were asleep. The person nearest the front door was leaning back in their chair, their mouth open, their legs thrust out.

“All right, my friend. Come here,” said Hopkins, kicking the sleeper rudely on the leg.