“Bill’s fishing. Dog-gone him! He never catches anything, either. He went up the Platte or down the Platte; left word he was going down, so probably he’s up. Now traffic on the Union Pacific Railroad will have to wait on Bill. I’ve got people hunting him.”
The freight pulled in. The engine stood fuming; the crew lolled about; yes, everything and everybody waited on Bill Thompson. Terry felt that he was losing valuable time. This was pretty tough. He wanted to be on his way.
Bill appeared, breathless, at half-past four—and he hadn’t caught a single fish, either. Now he had to get his men together and his handcar out.
“How far’s he going?” Terry demanded, struck with an idea.
“As far as Willow, anyway. North Platte, maybe, if he takes the notion,” said Harry. “There’s better fishing at North Platte—and better eating, too. Besides, he’s got a girl up there, at an all-night hash counter.”
“Gee, then! Why can’t Shep and I go too?” Terry proposed.
“Sure thing. There’s nothing like a handcar, for seeing the country from. Climb aboard. Tell Bill I sent you.”
“But won’t the freight pass us?”
“Not till you get to Willow. It’ll have to wait till Bill gives the O. K. These freights are mighty uncertain—they’re strictly limited. When they don’t happen to be moving they’re standing still, waiting for something. The main business of a freight crew on this line seems to be hunting a side-track. So if you’re really in a hurry you’d better take the handcar.”
“All right. Good-by.” And Terry ran for the handcar.