“He’s a Company pet, who was born with the big head and then bitten by the efficiency bug,” our companion concluded, “and if he should catch a woman on this freight it would be as much as all our jobs are worth.”
At that moment a man thrust his head into the manhole and called the brakeman out. He ascended quickly and his place was taken by the other, who proved to be the conductor. Dan started to speak, but was interrupted.
“Let the woman talk. I’ll get the truth from her.”
So I began the old, old story, and after a bit secured permission to ride as close to Sacramento as we dared. We were well outside the snowsheds when the conductor left us, and I settled down with the thought that the worst was over.
As the train pulled out of a station the light was cut off abruptly and a young man in a business suit bounced into the ice chest. As he landed, I looked up and caught sight of the horrified face of the brakeman leaning over the manhole.
“Who put you in here? How much did you pay that brakeman to let you ride?” he demanded fiercely.
“Why, we haven’t paid anybody—we haven’t seen any brakeman. We just got in when the train slowed up back there a ways; and we took good care not to see any brakeman or let any brakeman see us,” I answered innocently.
“But what are you doing here, and where are you going?”
“Oh, we came up from Sacramento for a little camping trip. My husband thought he could get a little work in the mountains, but he couldn’t find any, and we spent most of our money, and then started to walk home. This old freight came crawling along, and there wasn’t anybody on the far side of the track, so just for a lark we slipped in here.”
“So, you’re sure your husband didn’t pay the brakeman for the chance, are you?”