“It sounds that way to me, too,” said Watson. “Let’s see if we hear it again.”
In a moment the cry came to them again.
“We ought to see if we can find it,” said Jim. “I’ve heard of things like that. Kid might be lost—or some one might have wanted to get rid of it, and dropped it around here somewhere. Gee! It might starve to death if no one found it. This is a pretty lonely place.”
“It’s right up this way,” said Watson, running toward the caboose of the freight train.
“No,” cried Jim. “It’s the other way, Woeful.”
But Watson paid no attention to the pitcher. He was sure he was right, and he darted along, looking into car after car. Jim, on the other hand, ran toward the engine. For several seconds the cry was not repeated. Then he heard it again, and this time it seemed to come from a car immediately in front of him. With a quick jump, he swung himself up and inside the car, leaving the door open behind him. Even with the open door, it was dark in the big freight car. He could see that it had held grain of some sort. The smell, pleasant and summery, although rather dry, was evidence enough, without the grains of wheat that still clung to the floor.
But there was no sign of a child. A minute’s examination served to show that. He turned to the door, to look in the next car. But, even as he did so, the door was slammed shut in his face, and he was locked in the car.
He beat on the door, and shouted. Listening, he could hear nothing outside for a moment. Then, very faintly, and as if he were hearing a voice from a great distance, he heard what sounded like a mocking laugh. For a moment he thought Watson had played a joke on him, though such jokes were not at all in the line of the class pessimist. It would have been more like Brady or Maxwell.
He beat on the door again, and shouted until he was hoarse. It was very dry and hot inside the car when the door was shut, and his voice soon lost its power, so that he stopped shouting. He knew that it was useless.
Then he stood still by the door, expecting every moment that the joker, whoever he was, would release him, and enjoy a good laugh at his expense. He was prepared for that, and willing to submit to it. But the minutes passed, and he was still there. There was no sign of a move to release him. He began to grow anxious, and to fear that he would miss the train for New York.