Some one standing near Rickard said that it was Arnica Jack; he said he had seen his face. He had gone out on that train. Rickard thought of the saved salary.
“Why doesn’t that train come in? What is the matter with Silent?” His signals brought in the battle-ships, moving as though they were funeral carriages.
“Where is Silent?” demanded Rickard, running down to the track. A blackened figure was letting himself down from the car. The smell of something pungent struck sharply against Rickard’s nostrils. Arnica! “Where’s Silent?” he demanded.
“’E didn’t take hout this ’ere train.” The hobo’s eyes looked owlish.
“Then who?” the engineer was beginning, when it came to him. He himself had sent Estrada to question Silent! He knew what the tramp was going to tell him!
“The young Mexican, Hestrada. ’E tried to ’elp. ’E wasn’t fit.”
“Who was it?” Marshall had run down to see why the work paused.
Rickard turned shocked eyes on his chief. “Estrada!” The beautiful mournful eyes of Eduardo were on him, not Marshall’s, horrified.
“But it came again; it kept coming. I had it while you were all talking, just now!”
If that terrible smell didn’t take itself off! He hated the stupid wretch standing, open-jawed before him, because it was Estrada’s and not those owlish eyes that were lying in those waters yonder.