More men appeared. “The tramp who burned the car!” rose the cry. “Lynch him! Lynch him!”
Elder dove back the way he had come. The trackmen raced for the nearest openings, and dove after.
As Elder dashed for the next train several of his pursuers sprang into view but a car-length away. “Head him off! Don’t let him get away!” they shouted.
Madly Elder rushed on, darted beneath the last string of flats, and on out into the open.
A figure was approaching on horseback. He recognized Superintendent Finnan. Uttering a cry of hope, he headed for him. At sight of the desperately running figure, with its grimy face and flapping rags, the superintendent pulled up in sheer amazement. When the stream of men broke through the train and poured after, yelping like a pack of hounds, he urged his horse forward.
“Catch him! Stop him!” shouted the pursuers.
“It’s me! Elder!” screamed the clerk. “Elder! Elder!”
A big Irishman, a pick-handle in his hand, was gaining on the supposed tramp at every bound, roaring, “I’ll fix ye! I’ll fix ye, ye vermin!”
With a last desperate sprint the flying clerk reached the horse and threw himself at the superintendent’s stirrups. “It’s Elder, Mr. Finnan!” he gasped. “Elder! Elder!”
The superintendent gazed down into the blackened face an instant, then suddenly doubled up over his horse’s head, rocking and shaking in a convulsion of laughter. The action saved the clerk from the Irishman. The descending pick-handle halted in mid-air, the wielder gazed open-mouthed at the convulsed official, then suddenly grasping the clerk’s head, twisted it about, and staggered back, roaring and shouting at the top of his lungs. As fast as the others arrived the riot of merriment increased; and when presently the superintendent moved on toward the train, the crestfallen clerk still at his stirrup, they were the center of a hilariously howling mob.