When he went down to the levee an hour or two later, Elliott found no boats preparing to sail, and a general lack of activity about the steamer wharves¹. Sitting upon a stack of cotton-bales, he perceived a young man of rather less than his own age, smoking with something of the air of a busy man who finds a moment for relaxation². He was very much tanned; he wore a flannel³ shirt and a black tie, and his clothes were soiled with axle-grease and coal-dust. By these tokens Elliott recognized that he had been for some time in contact with the railways, but he did not look like a railway man, and his face wore a bright alertness that distinguished⁴ it unmistakably from that of the joyless hobo. Elliott took him for an amateur vagrant⁵ like himself.  
“Seems to be nothing doing on the river. Do you know when there’s a boat for St. Louis?” he asked, pausing beside the cotton-bales.
 
The lounger took stock of Elliott, keenly but with good nature.
 
“There ought to be one leaving about six o’clock, but I don’t see any sign of her yet,” he responded. “Going down the river?”
 
“I thought I’d try it. Do you reckon the mate would take me on, even if it was only to work my passage?”
 
“What do you want to do that for?” queried⁶ the other, with a sort of astonished amusement.
 
“Why, I wanted to get to St. Louis, and after that up to Pittsburg or Cincinnati.”
 
“If you want to get there easy, and get there alive, I don’t see why you don’t swim,” remarked the stranger, dryly. “You don’t know much about these river boats, do you? Man, they’re floating hells. The crew is all niggers, and the toughest gang of pirates in America. They knife a man for a chew of tobacco. The officers themselves don’t hardly dare go down on the lower deck after dark,—but, Lord! they do take it out of the black devils when they tie up at a wharf⁷ and start to unload. If you can’t work for ten hours at a stretch toting a hundred-pound crate⁸ in each hand, live on corn bread, and kill a man every night, don’t try the boats. A white man wouldn’t last any longer in that crowd than an icicle in hell.”
 
“The deuce!” said Elliott, disconcerted. “I’m very anxious to get to Cincinnati, anyway, and the fact is I’m sort of strapped⁹. I thought I’d be all right when I got to the river.”
 
“Tried freights?”
 
“Yes, and they don’t suit me too well.”
 
“I’m going to St. Louis,” said the stranger, after a pause. “I’m going to leave early in the morning, and I expect to get there in three hours, and I don’t intend that it shall cost me a cent. To tell the truth, I’m in something of the same fix as you are.”
 
“How’ll you manage it?” Elliott inquired, with much curiosity.
 
“Ride a passenger-train, on the top. I’ve just come from Seattle that way,” he continued, after a meditative¹⁰ pause. “There’s no great amount of fun in it, but I did it in six days.”
 
“The deuce!” exclaimed Elliott again. “Do you mean to say that you came all the way from Seattle in six days, beating passenger-trains?”
 
“Every inch of it. I was in a hurry, and I’m in a hurry yet. Mostly I rode the top, and sometimes the blind, and once I tried the trucks, but next time I’ll walk first. The beast of a conductor found that I was there, and poured ashes down between the cars.”
 
“You’re a genius,” said Elliott, looking at the audacious traveller with admiration¹¹. “That’s beyond me.”
 
“Not a bit of it. I don’t do this sort of thing professionally, nor you, either. Excuse me, I can see that you’re no more a bum¹² than I am. But a man ought to be able to do anything,—beat the hobo at his own game if he’s driven to it. I simply had to get to Nashville, and I hadn’t the money for a ticket. I did it, or I’ve nearly done it, and you could have done it, too.
 
“Of course you could,” he went on, as Elliott looked doubtful. “Come with me in the morning, if you’re game, and I’ll guarantee to land you in St. Louis by eight o’clock.”
 
“Oh, I’m game all right,” cried Elliott, “if you’re sure I won’t be troubling you.”
 
“Didn’t I say that I’m going, anyway. I mighty¹³ seldom let anybody trouble me. Now look here: the fast train from Omaha gets here a little before three, daylight. You meet me at the passenger depot¹⁴ at, say, three o’clock. Better get as much sleep as you can before that, for you sure won’t get any after it.”
 
He glanced at Elliott with a smile that had the effect of a challenge. “Oh, I won’t back out,” Elliott assured him. “I’ll be there, sharp on time. So long, till morning.”
 
Elliott went away a little puzzled by his new comrade, and not altogether satisfied. The young fellow—he did not know his name—evidently was in possession of an almost infernal degree of energy. Plainly he was no “bum,” as he had said; it was equally plain that he was, undeniably, not quite a gentleman; and, plainest of all, that he was a man of much experience of the world and ability to take care of himself in it. Elliott could not quite place him. He was a little like a professional gambler down on his luck. It was quite possible that he was a high-class crook¹⁵ escaping from the scene of his latest exploit, and it was this consideration that roused Elliott’s uneasiness. It was bad enough, he thought, to be obliged to dodge¹⁶ yard watchmen and railway detectives without risking arrest for another man’s safe-cracking.
 
Still, the association would last only for a few hours, and he went to bed that night resolved to carry the agreement through. He was staying at a cheap hotel, and there were times when he would have regarded its appointments as impossible, but it struck him just now that he had never known before what luxury was. It was four nights since he had slept in a bed, and, as he stretched himself luxuriously¹⁷ between the sheets, the idea of getting up at three o’clock seemed a fantastic impossibility.
 
A thundering at the door made it real, however. He had left orders at the desk to be called, and he pulled his watch from under the pillow. There was no mistake; it was three o’clock, and, shivering and still sleepy, he got up and lighted the gas.
 
Near the waterfront he found an all-night lunchroom, and hot coffee and a sandwich effected a miraculous¹⁸ mental change. With increasing cheerfulness he went on toward the depot through the deserted¹⁹ streets. It was still dark and the stars were shining, but there was an aromatic²⁰ freshness in the air, and low in the east a tinge²¹ of faintest pallor.
 
He found his prospective²² fellow traveller lounging about the triangular²³ walk that surrounds the depot, and saluted²⁴ him with a flourish of his pipestem. An almost imperceptible grayness was beginning to fill the air, and sparrows chirped²⁵ in the blackened trees about the station.
 
“She’ll be along in a few minutes,” said the expert, referring to the train. “By the way, my name’s Bennett; what’ll I call you? Any old name’ll do.”
 
“Call me Elliott. That happens to be my real name, anyway. But say, won’t it be a little too light soon for us to sit up in plain sight on the roof of that train?”
 
“A little. But she doesn’t make any stop all the way to St. Louis, I believe, and of course the people on board can’t see us. It’s easier to climb up there by daylight, too, and—there she whistles.”
 
The few early passengers hurried out upon the platform. In half a minute the train rolled into the station, its windows closely curtained and the headlight glaring through the gray dawn. The passengers went aboard; there was no demand for tickets at the car steps, and Bennett and Elliott went straight to the smoker²⁶, where they sat quietly till the train started again, after the briefest delay.
 
“Now come along,” muttered Bennett, and Elliott followed him across the platforms and through the three day coaches full of dishevelled, dozing²⁷ passengers. The Pullmans came next, and luckily the juncture²⁸ was not vestibuled.
 
Without the slightest hesitation²⁹ Bennett climbed upon the horizontal brake-wheel, and put his hands on the roof of the sleeper³⁰. Then with a vigorous spring he went up, crept to a more level portion of the roof, and beckoned³¹ Elliott to follow him.
 
The train was now running fast, and the violent oscillation of the cars made the feat³² look even more difficult and dangerous than it was. But the idea that the conductor might come through and find him there stimulated³³ Elliott amazingly, and he clambered nervously³⁴ upon the wheel, and got his hands upon the grimy roof that was heaving like a boat on a stormy sea. Securing a firm hold, he attempted to spring up, but a violent lurch³⁵ at that moment flung him aside, and he was left dangling³⁶ perilously³⁷ till Bennett scrambled³⁸ to his relief and by strenuous³⁹ efforts hauled him up to more security.
 
A furious blast of smoke and cinders⁴⁰ struck his face. Before him writhed⁴¹ the dark, reptilian⁴² back of the train, ending in the locomotive, that was just then wreathed in a vivid glare from the opened firebox. From that view-point the engine seemed to leap and struggle like a frenzied⁴³ horse, and all the cars plunged⁴⁴, rolling, till it appeared miraculous that they did not leave the rails. Even as he lay flat on the roof of the bucking⁴⁵ car it was not easy to avoid being pitched sideways. The cinders came in suffocating⁴⁶ blasts with the force of sleet⁴⁷, and presently, following Bennett’s example, Elliott turned about with his head to the rear and lay with his face buried in his arms. The roar of the air and of the train made speech out of the question.
 
The position had its discomforts⁴⁸, but it seemed an excellent strategic one. An hour went by, and it was now quite light. The fast express continued to devour⁴⁹ the miles with undiminished speed.
 
Little sleeping villages flashed by, as Elliott saw occasionally when he ventured to raise his head Two hours; they were within forty miles of St. Louis, when the train unexpectedly slackened speed and came to a stop.
 
Elliott jumped to the conclusion that it had stopped for the sole purpose of putting him off, but he observed immediately that it was to take water. He glanced at Bennett, who was looking about with an air of disgusted surprise.
 
There were men about the little station, and the trespassers flattened⁵⁰ themselves upon the car roof, hoping to escape notice, but some one must have seen them. A gold-laced brakeman presently thrust his head up from below, mounted upon the brake-wheel.
 
“Come now, get down out of that!” he commanded.
 
His conductor was looking on, and there was no possibility of coming to an arrangement with him. Elliott slid down to the platform, much crestfallen⁵¹, followed by Bennett. Cinders fell in showers from their clothing as they moved, and a number of passengers watched them with unsympathetic curiosity as they walked away.
 
“By thunder, I hate to be ditched like that!” muttered Bennett, glancing savagely⁵² about. “Let’s try the blind baggage, if there is one. We’ll beat this train yet.”
 
Elliott doubted the wisdom of this second attempt, but they went forward, looking for the little platform, usually “blind,” or doorless, which is to be found at the front end of most baggage-cars. It was there; none of the crew appeared to be looking that way, and they scrambled aboard just as the train started.
 
It was a much more comfortable position than the top, for there were iron rails to cling to and a platform to sit upon, while they were out of the way of smoke and cinders. Immediately before them rose the black iron hulk of the tender and it was not long before the fireman discovered them as he shovelled⁵³ coal, but he made no hostile demonstration⁵⁴ beyond playfully shaking his fist.
 
“We’re safe for St. Louis now. There won’t be another stop, and nobody can see us or get at us while she’s moving,” remarked Bennett, with satisfaction. He glanced over his shoulder, turned and looked again, and his face suddenly fell. After a moment’s sober stare, he burst into a fit of laughter.
 
“Done again! This ‘blind’ isn’t blind at all,” he cried, pointing to the car-end.
 
It was hideously⁵⁵ true. There was a narrow door which they had not observed in the end of the car. Just then it was closed fast enough, but there was no telling when it might be opened.
 
“Anyhow,” said Elliott, plucking up courage, “we’re making nearly forty miles an hour, and every minute they leave us in peace means almost another mile gained.”
 
“Yes, and there’s just a chance that nobody opens this door. I think that if we stop again we’d better give this train up.”
 
They watched the door anxiously as the minutes and the miles went past, but it remained unopened. The little stations flew past—Clarksville, Annada, Winfield. It was not far to West Alton, and that was practically St. Louis.
 
The end was almost in sight. But the door opened suddenly, and the brakeman they had before encountered came out.
 
“I told you fellows to get off half an hour ago.”
 
“Now, look here,” said Bennett, persuasively⁵⁶. “We’re not doing this train any harm at all. We’re not going inside; we’ll stay right here, and we’ll jump the minute she slows for Alton. We’re no hobos. We’re straight enough, only we’re playing in hard luck just now and we’ve simply got to stay on this train. Now you go away, and just fancy you never saw us, and you’ll be doing us a good turn.”
 
The brakeman reflected a moment, looked at them with an expression more of sorrow than of anger, and returned to the car without saying anything.
 
“He’s all right,” said Elliott.
 
“And every minute means a mile,” Bennett added.
 
But in less than a mile the brakeman returned, and the conductor came with him.
 
“Come now, get off!” commanded the chief, crisply.
 
“We’ll get off if we have to,” said Bennett. “You must slow up for us, though.”
 
“Slow hell!” returned the conductor. “I’ve lost time enough with you bums⁵⁷. Hit the gravel⁵⁸, now!”
 
Elliott glanced down. The gravel was sliding past with such rapidity that the roadway looked smooth as a slate⁵⁹.
 
“Great heavens, man, you wouldn’t throw us off with the train going a mile a minute. It would be sure murder,” pleaded Bennett.
 
“I’ve no time to talk. Jump, or I’ll throw you off.” The conductor advanced menacingly, with the brakeman at his shoulder.
 
Bennett lifted his arm with a gesture that the conductor mistook for aggression⁶⁰. He whipped out his revolver and thrust it in Bennett’s face. The adventurer, startled, stepped quickly back, clean off the platform, and vanished.
 
A wave of rage choked Elliott’s throat, and he barely restrained himself from flying at the throats of his uniformed tormentors.
 
“Now you’ve done it,” he said, finding speech with difficulty. “You’ve killed the man.”
 
The conductor, looking conscience-stricken and anxious, leaned far out and gazed back, and then pulled the bell-cord.
 
“He needn’t have jumped. I wouldn’t have thrown him off; never did such a thing in my life,” he muttered.
 
“He didn’t jump. You assaulted him, when all he wanted was to get off quietly. You pulled your gun on him, when neither of us was armed. It’s murder, and you’ll be shown what that means.”
 
Elliott felt that he had the moral supremacy⁶¹. The conductor made no reply, and the train came to a stop.
 
“You’d better go back and look after your partner,” he said, in a subdued⁶² manner. “I’m mighty sorry. I’d never have hurt him if he’d stayed quiet. It’s only a couple of miles to Alton,” he added, as Elliott jumped down, “and you can take him into St. Louis all right, if he isn’t hurt bad. I’d wait and take you in myself if I wasn’t eighteen minutes late already.”
 
The train was moving ahead again before Elliott had reached its rear. He ran as fast as he could, and while still a great way off he was relieved to see Bennett sitting up among the weeds near the fence where he had been pitched by the fall. He was leaning on his arms and spitting blood profusely⁶³.
 
“Are you hurt much, old man? I thought you’d be killed!” cried Elliott, hurrying up.
 
Bennett looked at him in a daze⁶⁴. His face was terribly cut and bruised⁶⁶ with the gravel, and the blood had made a sort of paste with the smoke-dust on his cheeks. His clothes were rent into great tatters.
 
“Don’t wait for me,” he muttered, thickly. “Go ahead. Don’t miss the train. I’m—all right.”
 
But his head drooped⁶⁷ helplessly, and he sank down. The ditch was full of running water, and Elliott brought his hat full and bathed the wounded man’s head and washed off the blood and grime. Bennett revived at this, and looked up more intelligently.
 
Elliott examined him cursorily⁶⁸. His right arm was certainly broken, and something appeared wrong with the shoulder-joint; it looked as if it might be dislocated. There must be a rib⁶⁵ broken as well, for Bennett complained of intense pain in his chest, and continued to spit blood.
 
“That conductor certainly ditched us, didn’t he?” he murmured. “Did he throw you off too? I was a fool not to see that door.”
 
None of the injuries appeared fatal, or even very serious, with proper medical care, and Elliott felt sure that the right thing was to get his comrade into St. Louis and the hospital at once. But Bennett was quite incapable⁶⁹ of walking, and Elliott was not less unable to carry him. He became feverish⁷⁰ and semidelirious again; he talked vaguely⁷¹ of war and shipwreck⁷², but in his lucid⁷³ moments he still adjured⁷⁴ Elliott to leave him.
 
Elliott remained beside him, though with increasing anxiety. After an hour or two, however, he was relieved by the appearance of a gang of section workers with their hand-car, to whom Elliott explained the situation without reserve. They were sympathetic, and carried both Elliott and Bennett into Alton on their car, where they waited for two hours for a train to St. Louis.
 
Bennett was got into the smoker with some difficulty; he remained almost unconscious all the way, and at the union Station in St. Louis there was more difficulty. Elliott was afraid to call a policeman and ask for the ambulance, lest admission should be refused on the ground that Bennett was an outsider. So, half-supporting and half-carrying the injured man, he got him out of the station and a few yards along the street. It was impossible to do more. A policeman came up, and Elliott briefly⁷⁵ explained that this man was badly hurt and would have to go to the hospital at once. Then he hurried off, lest any questions should be asked.