“That’s so, as you may see for yourself,” said Briscoe, following us along the track.
“Who did it? That’s the next question,” asked Faxon, vexed, as we all were, at the discovery.
“I don’t know; we didn’t,” answered Briscoe. “If the track hadn’t been pulled up, we should have returned at breakfast time. What’s to be done?”
“You must get back as quick as you can,” replied the benevolent Faxon. “I won’t blow on you. Take that car, and make time for the Institute.”
“You’re a good fellow, Faxon,” added Briscoe, with a smile.
“If I am, don’t you play this game again.”
“I won’t, again.”
“How did it work?” I inquired, wishing to hear the experience of the runaways.
“First rate. I had no trouble with it. She started when I pulled the thing, and we made time on her coming down, you had better believe.”
“I should think you did. I saw you putting her through by daylight.”