They grappled. The flask rolled under Kit’s foot, and his antagonist knocked his head against the door. He began to think he had an awkward job, but he had played Rugby football and studied Cumberland wrestling. He tried for a proper hold and when he knew the hold was good made a savage effort. His antagonist let go, plunged down the steps, and vanished.
Kit, rather horrified, jumped for the bottom step, seized a brass loop and leaned out. The beam from the windows swept the ground by the track, and at the other end of the long train somebody got up and began to run awkwardly after the cars. Kit sat down on the step and laughed, a rather breathless laugh. Although the train was not going very fast, he thought the other’s luck was good.
“You’re pretty hefty at a rough-house stunt,” somebody remarked, and Kit saw the passenger who had waited for Alison at the stove.
“I don’t think I meant to put him off,” he said in an apologetic voice.
“Well, you put up a useful fight and I wasn’t going to see you beat. When my kiddies were peeved and train-sick you helped them keep bright and they took a shine to you. I reckon you’re not a tourist. What’s your line?”
“I’d like to get on a bridge or tank-building job. I can use a fitter’s tools.”
“A construction company’s putting a new bridge across Harper’s Bar, and when I’ve dumped the kiddies, I expect to make the camp. The bosses know me, and if you look me up I might fix something. Ask for Jake Gordon.”
“Thank you,” said Kit, and the conductor and a train hand crossed the platform.
“Did you see the Montreal drummer?” the conductor inquired.
“I saw a pretty drunk man,” Kit replied. “Do you want the fellow?”