The noise of the wheels, the rumble of the train, the click-clack as the wheels passed over rail joints or switches, the bumping and swaying motion, all served to drive sleep away from Roy's eyes.
He thought of many things, of what he would do when he got to New York, of his father, of Caleb Annister, and what he should say to the New Yorker. Finally, however, the very monotony of the noises began to make him feel drowsy. In a little while he found his eyes closing, and then, almost before he knew it, he was asleep.
Meanwhile, back in the smoking room, the three men and Mr. Baker were talking over their cigars. One of them produced a pack of cards, and they began to play.
"Maybe if Isaac's game doesn't work, we can get him with these," suggested Mr. Baker, as he dealt the pasteboards to his companions.
"Maybe," agreed Hynard. "What time is Ike going to try it?"
"About two o'clock. He'll be sure to be asleep then."
Back in his berth, some hours after this, Roy was dreaming that he was being shaken in his bunk at the ranch house. He thought Billy Carew was urging him to get up early to go off on a round-up, and Roy was trying to drive the sleep away from his eyes, and comply.
Suddenly he knew it was not a dream, but that some one was moving him, though very gently. Then he became aware that a hand was being cautiously thrust under his pillow.
Roy did not stop to think—he acted. His instant impression was of thieves, and he did the most natural thing under the circumstances. He grabbed the hand that was being gently shoved under his pillow.
Instantly the wrist, which his fingers clasped, was snatched away, withdrawn from the curtains, and a voice exclaimed: