The Iron Horse

by R. M. Ballantyne

They soon reached the scene of the robbery, and were able to examine the place by the light of the moon, which had just managed to pierce the thick veil of clouds that had covered it during the earlier part of that night. Then they retired to a shady cavern, or hole, or hollow at the foot of the embankment, near to the gap in the hedge, and there they prepared to pass the night, with a heap of mingled clods and stones for their couch, and an overhanging bank of nettles for their canopy.

It was a long weary watch that began. There these patient men sat, hour after hour, gazing at the moon and stars till they almost fell asleep, and then entering into animated, though softly uttered, conversation until they roused themselves up. It was strange converse too, about struggles and fights with criminals and the detection of crime. But it was not all on such subjects. No, they forsook the professional path occasionally and strayed, as pleasantly as other men do, into the flowery lanes of social life—talking of friends, and wives, and children, and home, with as much pathos and tenderness as if their errand that night had been to succour some comrade in distress, instead of to watch like wolves, and pounce on unawares, and half throttle if need be, and bear off to punishment, an erring fellow-mortal.

But no fellow-mortal came that night to be thus pounced on, throttled, and borne off. When it became obvious that there was no use in remaining longer, Mr Sharp and his satellite returned to the office, and the former bade the latter go home for the night.

The satellite, thus set free, went home and set immediately—in his bed. The luminary himself postponed his setting for a time, put the thief’s shoe in his pocket and went straight to the residence of Bill Jones, which he reached shortly after the grey dawn had appeared. Here he found Bill in bed; but being peremptory in his demand for admission, Bill arose and let him in.

“You look rather pale this morning, Bill?”

“Bin at work late, sir,” said Bill uneasily, observing that the superintendent was casting an earnest glance all round his room.

Jones was a bachelor, so there wasn’t much of any kind to look at in the room.

“You’ve been treating yourself to a new pair of shoes, I see, Jones, what have you done with the old ones?”

“I—they’re worn-out, sir—I—”

“Yes, I see—ah! here is one of them,” said Mr Sharp, drawing an old shoe out of a corner; “you don’t require to look for the other, I’ve got it here,” he added, drawing its fellow from his pocket.