He listened with some uneasiness. The feet reached the end of the car; he heard them coming down the iron ladder, and then a face, a grimed but not unfriendly face, topped by a blue cap, appeared at the little slide in the end.
“Hello!” called the brakeman, peering into the dark interior. “I know you’re there. I seen you get in. I kin see you now.”
At this culminative address, Elliott came out of his dusky corner.
“Where you goin’?” demanded the brakeman.
“Why, I’d like to stay right with this train. It’s going my way,” replied Elliott. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Dunno as I do,—but you can’t ride this train free.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” responded the trespasser. “I’m pretty short or else I’d be on the cushions instead of here, but I don’t mind putting up a quarter. Does that go?”
“I reckon,” said the brakeman, unhesitatingly. “This train don’t go only to Brookfield; that’s the division point. Keep the door shet, an’ don’t let nobody see you.”
He went back to the top of the train. Elliott felt as if he had been swindled, for Brookfield was only twenty-five miles away. However, he hoped to catch another freight that afternoon and make as many more miles before sunset, and he settled himself as comfortably as possible on the jolting floor and lighted his pipe.
He had time to smoke many pipes before reaching Brookfield, for it was nearly two hours before the heavy train rolled into the yards. Elliott climbed out upon the side-ladder and swung to the ground before the train stopped, to avoid a possible railway constable. Considerably to his surprise, he saw half a dozen rusty-looking vagrants hanging to the irons and jumping off at the same time. He had had more fellow passengers than he had suspected, and it struck him that freight-breaking must be rather a lucrative employment.