Hal was as good as his word. Hour after hour the train hurried on. Occasionally the cars would pull up at some wayside station to allow a change of locomotives, and then the passengers would descend and take a short walk to stretch their legs and take the stiffness out of them. On such an occasion Hal strolled along the platform, leaving Mr. Brindle reading in the car. It was a sultry morning, and, feeling hot and fatigued, he sat down on a bench, being joined first by one passenger and then by a second, the former entering into conversation with him.
"Busy scene, sir," he said with some foreign accent. "Traveling alone, sir?" continued the stranger. "I should say you're not. The gentleman with you is Señor—I mean, Mr. Brindle of Cuba?"
Hal felt annoyed at the catechism through which he was being put.
"Well," he answered curtly, "and what if he is?"
What reply the dark-bearded stranger was about to give was cut short by the sudden clanging of a bell, and by the cry from the conductor, "All aboard!"
Starting from the seat, Hal ran some dozen paces, when he remembered the bag intrusted to him, and which he had placed by his side. To his consternation it was not where he had left it on the bench; a moment later, however, he noticed with a thrill of surprise that the stranger had it, and was hastening with it along the platform.
"Hi, there! Stop!" cried Hal, running after him. "What do you mean by taking my bag?" he demanded indignantly, rushing up to the man, and grasping the handle.
"Señor's bag! Pardon, but this is my friend's," replied the dark, Spanish-looking stranger, feigning astonishment and some amount of anger.
"Your friend's! Nonsense! It's mine! Give it up!" Hal cried, and without more ado wrenched the bag away.
"Sir, how do you dare? Ah, but here is my friend himself. He will explain," the stranger replied hotly. "Then, señor, you shall answer."