The agent noted the look of dismay on the four faces. "The Northern flier is due here in half an hour," he said, slowly. "She slows down a bit for the curve. If it's a matter of life or death you might be able to board her. I would not advise it, though. She does not slack down much at Clearwater and it would be pretty risky jumping off."
"Where's the best place to get on her?" asked the lad, briefly.
"Right down by the water tank. It's risky, though."
The lad thanked him, and the four hurried off for the water tank.
They boarded the train safely and stood on the platform hanging on to the rails as the fast limited tore on in the darkness. They would have liked to have entered one of the coaches and rested on the cushioned seats but they were afraid the conductor would insist upon carrying them on to the next regular stop, a hundred miles beyond their destination.
It was but an hour's ride to the little town and the flyer barely slackened speed as she thundered into it. As the lights of the station flashed into view, they stepped down to the lowest step and jumped.
It was a fearful chance to take, but luck was with them. They landed in a bank of soft sand, and, although the breath was knocked out of them for a minute, they escaped unhurt except for Walter. He gained his feet, wincing with pain.
"I've twisted my ankle," he said. "Don't stop for me. I would only be a hindrance to you with this game foot. Go on. I'll hunt up a doctor and have it tended to."
Charley hesitated. "I don't like to leave you this way, old fellow," he said.
"I don't like to be left, either," said his chum, grimly, "but you can't do me any good by staying. Go on. Don't waste precious time."