That was sufficient to silence the quick-witted Rip and in a second he was lowering himself from his upper berth and down into the darkened aisle as noiselessly as a cat. Westy made a gesture indicating the need of utmost secrecy as to their next move and motioned Rip to follow him.
On the platform, Westy tried to open the door on the right side of the train, but couldn’t seem to make the lever work. Then turning to the door on his left, he tried that and this time with success. They clambered down softly on the wet, soggy ground.
“I don’t know at all what’s the matter,” Westy confided to Rip in guarded tones.
“Well, by heck! What did you drag me out here for?”
“We’ll just go along easy and find out if there is anything wrong.” He wasn’t a bit perturbed at Rip’s peevishness.
Rip mumbled something about Westy being a poor misguided nut and all the other classical phrases so useful in our present-day vernacular. Nevertheless, he plodded on after him, albeit a good deal sleepy.
They stole along in the dark and through the pelting rain, keeping close beside the cars. Their Pullman was first in line after the mail and baggage cars, so it did not take them long to walk the distance between.
Westy couldn’t see a thing and, leading the way instinctively, held his arms out at length. Just as he could discern the dim outline of the engine ahead his outstretched hand came in contact with something. He stopped short as he heard the thud of a heavy object striking the soft, wet roadbed. Then to the surprise of both, they realized that another human being was also doing some sleuthing on his own and had muttered a low, almost unintelligible, curse.
“Aw right! I’m beat! Ya got me proper,” came the voice in true New York, east-side dialect. “Watcha going to do next, huh?”
Instinct and intuition probably prompted Westy’s answer more than anything else. Or, it might have been that his foot kicked something at the same time when he stepped forward in the direction of the voice. At any rate, he stooped and picked it up.