Ollie felt like an ant on a busy sidewalk, liable to be crushed under foot at any moment.
But an added hazard helped him find his train. The bulls had read that want ad too. They were out in force around a string of cars. He slipped between two sleepy-looking men, checked an address, and then slipped out again, certain every car would be inspected before departure.
A good way down the yard he hid at the base of the fence, dozing and shivering for several hours as he lay stretched out on the dew-chilled concrete. He checked each outbound train as it went by, and again knew his by the bulls on it.
They were on the cowcatcher and in the cab, on the car roofs, and in the caboose with the train-crew of three trouble-shooting mechanics. Highlights gleamed on their weapons. Their job was to keep or get all transients off that train—and they would if they could.
Ollie let most of the train go past. The caboose came by at about fifteen miles an hour with a sharp-eyed guard head-and-shoulders out of the cupola. Ollie let him get past, too—and hoped he went on looking toward the front.
He began to hobble parallel to the train, dismayed at the stiffness that had set in while he lay out on the damp concrete.
As the rear of the caboose drew even with him he emerged from the shadows and dived for the coupling at the car's rear. He caught it clumsily, tore the nail off his left ring finger, but hung on.
He tried to trot but the train dragged him. He gave a leapfrog player's jump and landed on top of his own hands, his thighs around the coupling, his nose against the rear platform-wall of the caboose.