“Twenty minutes past three,” said I, striking a match under my coat to see my watch-face.
“Immortal snakes!” cried Thatcher. “I'm an idiot. This is Sunday night.”
I failed to see the connection of these startling discoveries, but I had spirit enough to argue the case. “It's Monday morning, now.”
“Well, it's the same thing. The freight doesn't run to-night.”
I awoke to some interest at this announcement.
“Why, it's got to run, or we must take to saddle again for the rest of the way.”
“These horses can't go five miles more at that gait, let alone twenty-five,” protested Thatcher.
“Well, then, we must get other horses here.”
“Come,” said Fitzhugh; “what's the use of that when there's an engine on the siding doing nothing?”
“Just the idea. Find the man in charge.”