"Talk about prodigal sons," Westy said; "when this old car gets back home, they ought to kill the fatted calf for it."
"Good night," I told him; "if the fatted calf gets on the track, he'll be killed all right."
"Oh, boys, where do we go from here?" Wig began singing.
But those trainmen didn't seem to think it was much of a joke. All of a sudden, we went rattling through an opening in a fence and I saw a couple of big white things near us.
"They're tents," Westy said.
By now the car was slowing down and pretty soon it stopped right in front of a big dark thing—a kind of a building. If we'd have gone fifty feet more, we'd have bunked our nose right into it.
The trainman said, "That's the craziest old set of brakes I ever saw. You'll have to be contented to stay right here, that's all; twenty-three'll back in after you."
"Contented is our favorite nickname," I told him; "is this Flimdunk, with the fence around it? It's a good idea—the place can't run away. I hope they'll like us."
"Do you think we're intruding?" Westy said.
I guess those trainmen set us down for a lot of idiots. Anyway, they didn't have to tell us so, because we admit it. They said that the brakes were worn off so much that they didn't press hard against the wheels, only sort of gentle, like. They were nice polite brakes.