The young reporter was about to go out, and see what was the trouble, when a brakeman came in, and Larry made inquiry of him.
“Something went wrong with the engine,” was the answer. “They only give us half-worn out locomotives on this division, anyhow.”
“Will we be held up long?”
“Until morning I guess.”
“How far are we from Seven Mile Beach?”
“About three miles.”
“Then I’m going to walk. I’m in a hurry.” Larry made up his mind that the least delay that could be avoided ought to be, if he was to capture the thief. “Witherby may skip any moment, night or day,” he reflected.
“Walk! In this rain?” asked the brakeman, as there came a patter of drops against the window. “I wouldn’t. I’m going to make myself snug in here. There’s nothing we can do, the engineer says, and they can’t get another locomotive to us until morning. This division goes to sleep after ten o’clock I guess. Walk, in this rain? I guess not!”
“You would if you were a newspaper reporter,” thought Larry grimly, as he reached for his valise in the rack over his head.
It was not a very inviting prospect that lay before him. The night was dark, and the rain came down heavily. The railroad ran along the beach at this point, and Larry knew that by following the strand he would eventually come to his destination, and the little cabin where Bert Bailey lived. Fortunately he had an umbrella, but as he stepped off the train he found that the wind was blowing in from the sea with such violence that it whipped the drops up under the umbrella, making it all but useless.