Joe folded the message and put it in his pocket. Undoubtedly Mr. Chase was right about it. Young would not announce his real destination and if he had said Cleveland it was safe to say that he meant to journey in another direction. Joe settled back again, tipped his cap over his eyes to keep the light out and tried to plan what he should do and say if he was lucky enough to discover Young at Fremont. In the end, though, he reached no very clear conclusion, and while he was still trying to formulate a speech with which to greet the absconding clerk the train rattled over the switches, green and purple and red and white lights flashed past the window and the trainman was bawling:
“Fremont! Fremont! Change for Norwalk, Elyria, Cleveland, Toledo, and points east and west! This train for Sandusky and Port Clinton!”
Joe followed a dozen other passengers through the car door and down to the platform. A glance at his watch had shown him that Forty-nine, in spite of her unhurried progress, had arrived exactly on time. Consequently he had sixteen minutes in which to search the station and platform before the west-bound express drew out. He still kept his cap pulled down in front, trusting that if Mr. Chester Young saw him he would not recognise him. The platform was fairly crowded and Joe made his way along to the door of the waiting-room, keeping as much as possible out of sight. It took but a moment to satisfy himself that his quarry was not inside. Then he went on to the end of the platform without result, retraced his steps, reached the other end and paused there in the shadow of a piled-up truck. Mr. Chester Young was not to be seen. Five minutes had already gone by. Joe’s hope began to dwindle. After all, he reflected, it had been too much to expect; given a start of two hours and a half, Young would have been an idiot if he had not eluded pursuit. And yet, on the other hand, what reason had Young to suppose that either of the boys whose money he had taken would go to the length of chasing him down? Joe didn’t believe that Young would give either him or Jack credit for having enough enterprise to do that. And if he didn’t really expect pursuit he wouldn’t try very hard to elude it.
Joe gathered courage again and sought the ticket-window in the waiting-room. By this time the platform had almost emptied, but at the ticket-window several persons were in line and now and then the door opened to admit other passengers for the west-bound train. Joe gave up the idea of inquiring of the ticket-seller and inspected a time-table instead. The west-bound arrived in Fremont at nine-fifty-nine and remained there five minutes. It would come in, then, in just five minutes if it was on time. That put another idea in his head and he went back to the platform, keeping his eyes peeled, and sought the bulletin board there. “No. 16,” he read, “due 9:59, 15 mins. late.”
That, he told himself, would give him more time. He remained where he was and kept his gaze on the door of the waiting-room. The platform began to fill up again. A four-car local pulled in, emptied its contents and puffed out. The clock pointed to one minute of ten now. It was chilly out there on the platform, for a north wind was blowing down from Lake Erie, and Joe’s thoughts travelled toward the gleaming coffee-urn he had glimpsed a few minutes back. For a moment he debated whether he should seek it and spend a nickel of his small fund, but he decided not to. If Young did put in an appearance he wanted to know it as soon as possible. And at that moment his gaze, travelling over the platform, alighted on the form of a man carrying a suit-case and making his way along toward where Joe was standing with his back to the building. For an instant Joe thought that the other had seen him and was going to speak. But it was the bulletin board that was the attraction, and Joe, turning aside to escape detection in a sudden spasm of nervousness, smelt the odour of a cigarette that was very familiar, heard the other’s grunt of impatience as he read the inscription on the board, and the tread of his feet as he strode away again.
Then a mild panic seized Joe and he darted forward. Someone got in front of him. He dodged around and his heart sank, for his first anxious look failed to discover the form it sought. He was already regretting his timorousness when he spied his quarry entering the waiting-room. Joe sped after him. Mr. Chester Young was making his way to the ticket window. Joe made a detour and closed in behind him. At the window he stood at his elbow while he purchased a ticket for Toledo. Young had, it appeared, plenty of money, for he gave a twenty-dollar bill to the ticket-seller and caused that busy gentleman to scowl as he made change. Then Young turned away, walked to the end of a bench, set his bag down, and proceeded to place the bills and silver in his purse.
Joe, his heart thumping hard, walked across to him, a slight smile around his mouth. When he was a yard away Young glanced up and a look of surprise and consternation came into his face.
“Hello, Young,” said Joe pleasantly. “I was afraid I’d missed you.”