Each passing moment brought the racing train still nearer the border,—to that invisible line that marks the end of Yankeeland and the beginning of the British possessions. The sheriff knew this and beat loudly upon the car door with an iron gun. The Governor let the sash fall at the top of the door and spoke, or rather yelled, to the deputy.
To the Governor's amazement, the sheriff pushed the bottle aside. Dry and dusty as he was, he would not drink. He was too mad to swallow. He poked his head into the dark coach and ordered the whole party to surrender.
"Just say what you want," said a voice in the gloom, "and we'll pass it out to you."
The sheriff became busy with some curves and reverse curves now, and made no reply.
Presently the Governor came to the window in the rear door again and called up the sheriff.
"We are now nearing the border," he said to the man on the platform. "They won't know you over there. Here you stand for law and order, and I respect you, though I don't care to meet you personally; but over the border you'll only stand for your sentence,—two years for carrying a cannon on your hip,—and then they'll take you away to prison."
The sheriff made no answer.
"Now we're going to slow down at the line to about twenty miles an hour, more or less; and if you'll take a little friendly advice, you'll fall off."
The train was still running at a furious pace. The whistle sounded,—one long, wild scream,—and the speed of the train slackened.
"Here you are," the Governor called, and the sheriff stood on the lower step.