Stanley, awakened by the arrival of a crew from an incoming train and the departure of another to take its place, lay for a while looking down the room and watching the new arrivals prepare for bed. He was a restless man and light sleeper at the best, and he devoutly hoped that the strike was nearing an end. The strain was beginning to tell on his nerves, never any too steady, and he longed for his comfortable and quiet bed. The air in the freight-house had become fetid from the exhalations of fifty men, not over dainty in their personal habits, and with a sudden sense of disgust, Stanley threw back the covers and sat up in bed.
As he did so, it seemed to him that he heard a faint knocking at the wall underneath him. He listened a moment, but it was not repeated, and he decided it was merely the vibration from a passing engine. But he was burdened with a queer feeling of suffocation, and slipping into his clothes, he went out to the platform for a breath of fresh air.
He was worried. He knew, somehow, that, during his absence in pursuit and prosecution of the robbers, he had lost his grip of the situation.
It had got, in some subtle way, beyond his control, and he felt the necessity of being “on the job” at every hour of the day and night. It was as though he were shadowed by some impending calamity, which he could not avoid.
He heard steps approaching along the platform and in a moment the freight-house watchman emerged from the darkness.
“Everything quiet?” Stanley asked.
“Everything but the wind,” answered the watchman, laughing at his own joke, and passed on his way.
“Blamed fool!” Stanley muttered to himself, for the jest and the laugh jarred on him. “I’m gettin’ as nervous as a cat,” he added, and walked slowly down the platform, trying to shake off the feeling of depression.
Another thing disturbed him. The tough-looking strangers whom he had observed loitering about the depot-saloons for several days past, had suddenly disappeared. He had made discreet inquiries, but no one seemed to know who they were or what had become of them. Where had they gone, he asked himself; where were they at this moment? He had heard some vague rumours of the row at the brotherhood meeting, and he could imagine Bassett’s rage and chagrin. He had always connected the strangers with Bassett, in some indefinite way, and a little shiver shook him at the thought that perhaps Bassett had taken them with him to execute some fiendish project. Perhaps—