He put out both hands cautiously and groped about him.
Phil uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Good gracious, I'm on the floor. I must have fallen out of bed."
Then he realized that this could not be the case, because there was a carpet on the floor of No. 11.
This was a hard, rough floor on which he was lying, and the air was close, very different from that in the well-kept sleeping car in which he traveled nightly from stand to stand.
In an effort to get to his feet the lad fell back heavily.
His head was swimming dizzily, and how it did ache!
"I wonder what has happened?" Forrest thought out loud. "Maybe I was struck by a train. No; that couldn't be the case, or I should not be here. But where am I? I might be in one of the show cars, but I don't believe there is an empty car on the train."
As soon as Phil felt himself able to sit up he searched through his pockets until he found his box of matches, which he always carried now, as one could not tell at what minute they might be needed.
Striking a light, he glanced quickly about him; then the match went out.
"I'm in a freight car," he gasped. "But where, where?"
There was no answer to this puzzling question. Phil struggled to his feet, and, groping his way to the door, began tugging at it to get it open. The door refused to budge.