Mr. Ringold fretted and fumed at the delay, but there was no help for it. Those suffering must be cared for first.
“We ought to be at Hannibal to-morrow,” said the manager, one night, as the sleeping berths were being made up. “Then we can start in, and do something. I only hope we can find them,” he added, referring to his lost company.
Joe and Blake had sections opposite each other, and, after talking across the aisle in low tones for a few minutes, they dropped off to sleep.
It was past midnight when Blake thought he felt someone fumbling at the curtains of his berth.
“That you, Joe?” he asked, sleepily.
“What’s that?” inquired his chum, evidently also just awakened.
“I asked if that was you at my berth just now,” repeated Blake. “I’m sure I felt someone.”
“So did I. I thought it was you,” said Joe. “Were you up?”
“Not a bit of it! Say, maybe we’d better look around a bit. The films are under my berth.”
Blake slipped on a bathrobe over his pajamas, and got out in the aisle. The narrow, curtained passage contained no one. Joe thrust his head out between his curtains, to watch Blake as he felt under the berth.