"I ain't tryin' to scare you," he whined; "I'm simply tellin' you the truth."
This was certainly alarming, and I almost confessed my fear. But I managed to control myself, and persevered in my artificial boldness.
"Well, Fatty, let's die game, anyhow. If the horns come up here we can kick at them, and perhaps the steers will be frightened. Can't tell, you know."
"No, that won't work," he replied hopelessly, and he measured the hay once more. This time his hand struck the thin and widely separated slats, the only barriers between us and the steers. We both knew that if the horns ever came through them, we would be done for.
"We're gone, Cig," Fatty continued; "no doubt of it. But, jus' the samey, I'm goin' to pound my ear, anyhow. I'd rather die asleep than awake. So, so long, Cig; if you croak first, I'll pray for you."
Then, much to my surprise and indignation, he curled into a big ball and "pounded his ear." I remained awake for a while longer, listening to the steers chewing away at the hay. But, in spite of the nearing danger, I became sleepy, too, and was soon lying beside Fatty. In the morning, about half-past five, we awoke simultaneously. I felt around in the box, and the hay seemed almost gone.
"I wish that I'd died in the night," said Fatty, angrily. "Now I've got to go when I'm awake."
The train began to slow up—perhaps we were to be saved, after all. It came to a full stop, and we could hear footsteps. Some one was walking along the path near the track.
"Shall I holler?" asked Fatty.
"Perhaps it's a policeman," I returned, "and that means thirty days in the Bridewell. Wouldn't you rather die?"