“What’s going on?” asked Mr. Ringold, who had been awakened in his berth, near the two boys, by hearing the talk. “Has any thing happened?”
“There certainly has,” replied Blake, taking care not to speak too loudly, for fear of awakening the other passengers. “Our undeveloped films have been stolen—the ones showing the relief train, and the bridge work.”
“Stolen!” exclaimed the manager, thrusting his head out from between the curtains.
“Well, they’re gone, and that’s the only way I can account for it,” went on Blake, as he told the story, the colored porter standing by, and listening with open mouth.
“We haven’t made any stops since you put the films under your berth; have we?” asked Mr. Ringold.
“No, sah, dish yeah train ain’t done made no stops since dark,” answered the porter.
“Then the thief must be aboard still!” cried the manager. “We must find him. It’s probably Munson, just as you suspect. Wait until I get some clothes on, and we’ll search.”
It was not an easy matter to look for Munson aboard a train consisting mostly of sleeping cars, the occupants of which had, in the main, retired. But when the urgency of the matter was explained to the conductor, he lent his aid, and by questioning the porters and brakemen, and such passengers as were aroused, it was learned that no one answering Munson’s description had been seen.
“Of course it may not have been he,” said Blake, when the fruitless search was over, “and, if it was, he may have jumped from the train.”
“He could have done that,” the conductor admitted. “We struck a pretty stiff grade not long ago and had to reduce speed. He could have jumped off, if he hit the right place, with little chance of injury.”