“You coward!” exclaimed Brightly, his breast heaving with exhaustion and indignation. “You coward, give back that money!”
For an instant Brede glared defiantly at his captor; then, as the conductor shouted “All aboard!” and the engine gave its first long puff at starting, he plunged his hand into his pocket, held out a handful of small coin and paper currency, and turned again toward the cars.
“Stop!” said Brightly, looking the money over rapidly. “Wait! This isn’t all of it; I want the rest.”
“I’ll keep my part,” replied Brede, darting suddenly in among the people. Before he could escape, Brightly’s hand was on his shoulder, and the demand was repeated. The fugitive turned, almost crying in his rage, and flung a few pieces of paper money into his captor’s face. Then, grasping the rail of the last car as it passed rapidly by him, he swung himself to the step. Some one helped him up to the platform, and he looked back with a curse on his white lips as the train bore him swiftly out of sight. By this time the entire party had disembarked, and were hurrying toward the station. Brightly, after a few words of explanation to the men who gathered about him on the platform, turned back to meet his companions. They had all witnessed Brede’s treachery, and were all excited and indignant to the last degree. They crowded around Brightly, asking all sorts of questions: “Why didn’t you knock ’im down, Bright?” “Why didn’t you kick ’im?” “Why didn’t you hold ’im so’t he couldn’t go?”
Brightly turned on the last questioner.
“We’re lucky to get rid of him,” he replied. “We don’t want him with us.”
“That’s so!” came the response from a dozen voices at once, and the party went down again to the dock.
“Did you ketch ’im?” asked the ferryman.
“We did,” was the reply.
“Git the money?”