"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.
The certainty that they were trapped turned him a little giddy.
"Who the devil could have locked this door?" he demanded, shaking the handle savagely.
"Seat yourself, Tommy," his companion advised. "Do not excite yourself—and have your passport ready. Perhaps they will not put us off."
And then a face, crowned by the ubiquitous spiked helmet, appeared at the window.
"You will have to get out," said the man in German, and tried to open the door.