It didn’t take Westy half a minute to dress on that occasion, but it
took him longer than that to rouse Rip, tug as he did at his bed
clothes.
“Whassa matter, anyway?” His voice sounded startled.
“Shush!” warned Westy. “Get into your clothes quick as you can, ’n’
don’t make any noise.”
That was sufficient to silence the quick-witted Rip and in a second he
was lowering himself from his upper berth and down into the darkened
aisle as noiselessly as a cat. Westy made a gesture indicating the need
of utmost secrecy as to their next move and motioned Rip to follow him.
On the platform, Westy tried to open the door on the right side of the
train, but couldn’t seem to make the lever work. Then turning to the
door on his left, he tried that and this time with success. They
clambered down softly on the wet, soggy ground.
“I don’t know at all what’s the matter,” Westy confided to Rip in
guarded tones.
“Well, by heck! What did you drag me out here for?”
“We’ll just go along easy and find out if there is anything wrong.” He
wasn’t a bit perturbed at Rip’s peevishness.
Rip mumbled something about Westy being a poor misguided nut and all the
other classical phrases so useful in our present-day vernacular.
Nevertheless, he plodded on after him, albeit a good deal sleepy.
They stole along in the dark and through the pelting rain, keeping close
beside the cars. Their Pullman was first in line after the mail and
baggage cars, so it did not take them long to walk the distance between.
Westy couldn’t see a thing and, leading the way instinctively, held his
arms out at length. Just as he could discern the dim outline of the
engine ahead his outstretched hand came in contact with something. He
stopped short as he heard the thud of a heavy object striking the soft,
wet roadbed. Then to the surprise of both, they realized that another
human being was also doing some sleuthing on his own and had muttered a
low, almost unintelligible, curse.
“Aw right! I’m beat! Ya got me proper,” came the voice in true New York,
east-side dialect. “Watcha going to do next, huh?”
Instinct and intuition probably prompted Westy’s answer more than
anything else. Or, it might have been that his foot kicked something at
the same time when he stepped forward in the direction of the voice. At
any rate, he stooped and picked it up.
“Hold ’em up!” Westy’s voice commanded, sounding strange even to
himself. Rip was holding his breath waiting for the next thing to
happen, for he naturally thought that the deep hoarseness emanating from
the throat of his comrade was a temporary bluff to make the east-sider
believe his opponents were men. However, no one but Westy himself ever
knew just what did cause this remarkable change and in view of
subsequent happenings it wouldn’t be fair to reveal anything further.
“Get around on the other side of the engine!” Westy commanded,
determination ringing in his tones. “Walk ahead and don’t look back
once. I got you covered. D’ye get me?”
“Shure, I getcha,” the captured one answered sullenly.
As they reached the head of the engine and stepped to cross and go
around it, Westy and Rip got a good view of their prisoner as he passed
directly in the path of the powerful searchlight. A typical gunman he
was, short of stature, but broad and stockily built, trudging obediently
ahead.
These two boy scouts, fearless as they were, would not have meant so
much as a feather in his ruffian hands had he but been aware of the
extreme youth of his captors. They stepped quickly out of the light lest
he should suddenly turn and discover how he was misled. But no, he led
the way, groping in the darkness, and Westy felt perfectly confident
that he would go on, blindly leading them to the source of the mystery.
Passing under the engine cab the boys could see it was empty, the
fireman and engineer both gone. Obviously, there was foul play somewhere
and Westy drew a deep breath to heighten his courage.
Nearing the second mail car, they perceived a chink of light shining
through the aperture and the distinct hum of voices inside. At this
juncture the boys both whispered a warning to their captive, Westy
pushing the gun against his back.
“Tell them to open up, and if you let out one squeak----!” He left the
sentence unfinished purposely.
The gunman nodded assent and rapped his knuckles against the door. A
subdued silence prevailed and then a shuffle of feet.
“Zat you, Bull?” came from behind the door.
“Yeh, ’s me! Say----!”
Westy pushed the gun closer and Bull wriggled uncomfortably.
“Say, open up, will youse? I gotta put youse hip to sometin!”
As the door slid open slowly, throwing the light about the darkened area
where they were standing, Westy and Rip jumped quickly and quietly back
into the protecting shadows.