“A-l-l A-b-oar-d!”
Slowly, the great pipe swung back to its own place on the tank. The blue-jean figures, with their flaring torches, climbed into the already moving train. The curious passengers hurried to their “sections,” to dream of hold-ups and an Indian outbreak. Once more the heavy, jarring rumble filled the whole earth; then gradually—swiftly—completely passed away. Upon that platform in the wilderness there was once more left but a handful of people to face the night alone.
Carlota’s tired, excited brain was full of visions; and Carlos clasped his hands in a momentary despair for that far off House of Refuge, whose safety he had so unwisely left. Alas! the world was not that always brilliant, sunshiny place he once had fancied it, and a sob rose in his throat.
“Come on! my White-Around-the-Gills-Young-Brave!” cried Jack, bringing his hand down with a ringing slap on Carlos’ shoulder.
“Take care!”
“That’s what I’m doing. It’s getting near midnight and I expect you’ll have to share my lofty chamber. So, march, propel, come along, vamos! For an Indian, you’re the slowest—”
The word died in its utterance. A blow, as well directed as it was unexpected, settled upon Jack’s wide mouth with a force that sent him staggering backward.
Carlota instantly rallied from her half-swoon of fatigue, and screamed:
“Carlos! Carlos! My brother! Boy—boy—go away!”
She would have rushed between the combatants had not Mrs. Burnham, though herself vastly astonished, restrained her; while Dennis flung himself into the business, hot foot.