“I don't know,” he answered. “Only the emergency brakes. Just a cow on the track, I guess. Don't get scared. It isn't anything.”
But with a final shriek of the Westinghouse appliance, the train came to a definite halt.
At once the silence was absolute. The ears, still numb with the long-continued roar of wheels and clashing iron, at first refused to register correctly the smaller noises of the surroundings. Voices came from the other end of the car, strange and unfamiliar, as though heard at a great distance across the water. The stillness of the night outside was so profound that the rain, dripping from the car roof upon the road-bed underneath, was as distinct as the ticking of a clock.
“Well, we've sure stopped,” observed one of the drummers.
“What is it?” asked Hilma again. “Are you sure there's nothing wrong?”
“Sure,” said Annixter. Outside, underneath their window, they heard the sound of hurried footsteps crushing into the clinkers by the side of the ties. They passed on, and Annixter heard some one in the distance shout:
“Yes, on the other side.”
Then the door at the end of their car opened and a brakeman with a red beard ran down the aisle and out upon the platform in front. The forward door closed. Everything was quiet again. In the stillness the fat gentleman's snores made themselves heard once more.
The minutes passed; nothing stirred. There was no sound but the dripping rain. The line of cars lay immobilised and inert under the night. One of the drummers, having stepped outside on the platform for a look around, returned, saying:
“There sure isn't any station anywheres about and no siding. Bet you they have had an accident of some kind.”