Faster and faster—faster and faster still—dashed on the train. Over the sleepers bounded “Chain Lightning.” To this side, to that, it swayed madly. Phil’s grasp never slackened. On they rushed. Phil dared not roll off the sled now lest he should be killed. It seemed no less certain death to stay on.
The engine gave short panting breaths, as if it were frightened, itself, at the trick it was playing the boy.
A kindly tree stretched out a limb, but tried in vain to rescue Phil. The sled bounded far less now as the train whizzed along. The runners were half an inch from the ground. Held by its strong rope, the sharp-shooter was like a small tail to a big kite. Cinders flew—the cars flew—“Chain Lightning” flew—Phil flew. (I am telling you the truth.)
It seemed to our friend as if he had been rushing through space ever since he was born. It seemed as if he had come millions of miles. Would this awful ride never end? Phil’s fingers were numb, so tightly did they clasp “Chain Lightning’s” edge. He saw stars before him.
And now thump! bump! bump! thump! “Chain Lightning” was knocking the sleepers once more. It might have occurred to Phil that he could hardly bear this sort of travelling much longer had not his brain been too dizzy to do much thinking.
Presently, after another small eternity, with a final shriek the locomotive drew up in the city depot.
An hour later Philip Sullivan entered the paternal mansion. Never a word did he say in regard to the black-and-blue spots which dotted him from head to foot, not yet did he feel it necessary to mention that every bone in his body had an especial and separate ache.
“I thought I might as well go into town,” he remarked carelessly. “Here’s your music, Kate. Your skates will probably come to-morrow, Rosabel.”
“Well, you are a dear,” began Kate, looking up from her crocheting. But before she could finish there came a loud ring at the door-bell, and in rushed Fred Rodman. As he caught sight of Phil, his eyes and mouth opened wide, and he stared for a full minute.