"Never mind; better luck next time. I don't think you could have made it on the bumpers. Here's my knife. Cut your boots so that you can get them on. The lightning express will be along soon, and we can make fifty or sixty miles on it. If the express car has an open end, by thunder, we'll jump the pilot!"
"What did those men get off for?" asked Ben.
"Why," explained Tom, "when the train stops, they take to cover so that the train men will not see them."
"There were three making their way on that train."
"Hard telling," replied Tom. "There may have been a dozen; on the trucks, and bumpers, and hanging on the ladders; besides some that may have forced an end gate and locked themselves in a box. When I was at Albany, there came in a train from the west and I heard the conductor boast that he'd made one trip without a deadhead. Well, Ben, when they came to open one of the cars that had wheat in it they found a man inside dead as a herring. He had forced the end gate and then nailed himself in, and I expect the dust or something smothered him before he could get it open for fresh air."
"That was a deadhead, sure enough. Did they find out who he was?" asked Ben.
"Bless you, no. What does any one care about a dead tramp. I was in hopes there'd be an empty on that train that we could have jumped, and made it clean through to Philadelphia. Now we will have to give the Express a whirl."
Ben had scarce got his boots on, after cutting them considerably, when the express was heard thundering in the distance.
"Look alive now!" cried Tom. "Follow me close. She hardly stops at all,—only just slacks up for that crossing ahead."
Down rushed the express on another track from the one occupied by the freight, and as it slacked its speed near the travellers, they sprang from their hiding place, and hugging tight to the side of the still moving train, ran along it toward the forward end. One look at the express car sufficed for Tom.