The boys thanked him heartily, but explained that they were anxious to reach town as soon as possible.
"Railroad, 'tain't but two miles," volunteered the logger; "if yer hustle, yer kin git a train at Spiker's Hamlet. Logging road goes right toward it."
The boys passed through a clearing, in the centre of which stood a log hut, while, close at hand, were several sheds used for storing lumber. By this time Dave joined them, dragging himself wearily along.
"Come on, come on!" cried Sam Randall. "We don't want to miss that train."
"Another dose of this will surely finish me," groaned Dave; "I'll eat two suppers to-night and sleep all day to-morrow."
The logging road made progress easy, and a half hour later, Tom Clifton gave a joyous shout. "The railroad!" he cried. "Now for Spiker's Hamlet."
The steel rails stretched in a long straight line before them, affording a glimpse, in the distance, of a few houses. This was Spiker's Hamlet, a dull, lifeless little community.
The only occupant of the small station proved to be an old, gray-headed ticket agent, who hobbled forth on one leg and gazed at them in apparent astonishment.
"Hev ter wait thirty-five minutes," he snapped, in answer to their questions. "Last train?—sure. Do yew calculate they run 'em all night? Stick them 'ere guns in the corner."
"Guess he must have know'd a feller once what shot somebody in the neck," laughed Dick Travers.