“The frontier!” said Stewart to himself, and glanced at his companion, but she, to all appearance, was sleeping peacefully. “We shall be delayed here,” he thought, “for the troops to detrain,” and he lowered the window and put out his head to watch them do it.
The train had stopped beside a platform, and Stewart was astonished at its length. It stretched away and away into the distance, seemingly without end. And it was empty, save for a few guards.
The doors behind him were thrown open and the officers sprang out and hurried forward. From the windows in front of him, Stewart could see curious heads projecting; but the forward coaches gave no sign of life. Not a door was opened; not a soldier appeared.
“Where are we? What has happened?” asked his companion’s voice, and he turned to find her rubbing her eyes sleepily.
“We are at the frontier, I suppose,” he answered. “No doubt we shall go on as soon as the troops detrain.”
“I hope they will not be long.”
“They haven’t started yet, but of course—by George!” he added, in another tone, “they aren’t getting out! The guards are driving the people out of the cars ahead of us!”
The tumult of voices raised in angry protest drew nearer. Stewart could see that the carriages were being cleared, and in no gentle manner. There was no pause for explanation or argument—just a terse order which, if not instantly obeyed, was followed by action. Stewart could not help smiling, for, in that Babel of tongues, he distinguished a lot of unexpurgated American!
“There’s no use getting into a fight with them,” he said, philosophically, as he turned back into the compartment and lifted down his suit-cases. “We might as well get out before we’re put out,” and he tried to open the door.
It was locked.