“Got you!” said a quick voice. Its owner stumbled, his head struck the young fireman and Ralph was driven from the running board.
He was going at such a momentum that in no way could he check himself, but slid diagonally across the roof of the car. There destruction seemed to face him.
His pursuer had fallen flat on the running board. Ralph dropped flat also, clutching vainly at space. His fingers tore along the thin sheeting of ice. He reached the edge of the car roof.
For one moment the young fireman clung there. Then quick as a flash he slipped one hand down. It was to hook his fingers into the top slide bar of the car’s side door. The action drew back the door about an inch. It was unlocked. Ralph dropped his other hold lightning-quick, thrust his hand into the interstice, pushed the door still further back, and precipitated himself forward across the floor of an empty box car.
There he lay, done up, almost terrified at the 228 crowding perils of the instant, marveling at his wonderful escape from death.
“They must think I went clear to the ground,” theorized Ralph. “I am safe for the present, at least. What an adventure! And Woods is in league with the freight thieves! That solves the problem for the railroad company.
“An empty car,” he said, as he finally struggled to his feet. “I’ll wait till the train stops again and then run ahead to Barton. Hello!” he exclaimed sharply, as moving about the car, his foot came in contact with some object.
Ralph stood perfectly still. He could hear deep, regular breathing, as of some one asleep. His curiosity impelled him to investigate farther. He took a match from his pocket, flared it, and peered down.
Directly in one corner of the car lay a big, powerful man. He was dressed in rags. His coat was open, and under it showed a striped shirt.
“Why!” exclaimed Ralph, “a convict—an escaped convict!”