I have since learned that it is about the hardest road in the United States to beat. No long freights pass over the road—most of the trains are "mixed," that is to say, a few box-cars and a few passenger cars.
On this night the train for Pensacola had already made up. It consisted of two or three box-cars and the same number of passenger coaches.
The conductor was in the depot working on some freight bills, when I approached him, requesting permission to ride on the "blind baggage" to Pensacola.
"The same old story," said he, looking up. "Sorry, young man, but we can't carry you on this road."
I next went to the engineer, and there met with the same refusal.
Then to the express car I hurried, for the train would soon start; but again, I was met with a rebuff.
There were no stores in sight, and few houses. Surely Grand River Junction would be a most dismal place to get left in, especially in my condition—only fifty cents, and that borrowed money.
In desperation I ran to the front part of the engine.
In the intense darkness, both fireman and engineer failed to observe a silent form spring upon the cow-catcher.
The wheels began to revolve, and barring all accidents, I was due to reach Pensacola in time for dinner.