Richard crawled into the car after the man. Inside it was full of dust, and the thick tobacco smoke nearly stifled the boy.
Near the center of the car they found the unfortunate passenger. It was not Mr. Timothy Joyce.
The man was on his back, and a seat, fastened in some strange manner, pinned him down.
"Help me! help me!" he gasped. "That thing is staving in all my ribs!"
It did not take Richard long to insert the iron bar under one end of the slat and thus pry it up. This done the man with the axe gave the side of the seat a couple of blows, and then the prisoner was free.
"Thank God!" exclaimed the man, as he sprang to his feet, and followed the others out of the car. "And thank you, too, my hearties," he continued to the other man and to Richard. "I thought as how I was strangled sure. But Doc Linyard allers was a lucky tar. Thanky, messmates, thanky."
He was a nautical-looking fellow of perhaps forty. He wore a blue pea-jacket and trousers, and under the rolling collar of his gray flannel shirt was tied a black bandanna in true sailor style.
"Is your chest hurt much?" asked Richard, as he thought he noticed a look of pain cross the man's countenance.
"No bones broken," was the reply, after a deep breath.
The two were soon standing side by side on the bank near the track.