“Until Gus comes.”
“Gus? I thought he was aboard here.”
“No,” said John Flint, with a wink; “he went out last night to see the wheels go round. Here he comes now. But what in—”
They all gazed without a word. Three men were walking abreast down the platform, Gus Vandervelt, with a white face and ringed eyes, in the middle. The youngest engineer of the outfit was not a small man, but between the two cooks he looked like a child.
“Would you look at that!” said Flint, at length. “Neither of those two Jesse Jameses will ever see six-foot-three again. Makes Gus look like a nick in a wall.”
Young Van met Carhart’s questioning gaze almost defiantly. “The cook,” he said, indicating Flagg.
“All right. Get aboard.”
“Rear car,” cried Old Van, who had charge of the arrangements on the train.
This time the bell did not ring in vain. The train moved slowly out toward the unpeopled West, and the engineers threw off coats and collars, and made themselves as nearly comfortable as they could under the circumstances.