PURSUIT
Forty-nine was a faster train than the one on which Mr. Chester Young
had embarked and made but five stops between Amesville and Fremont,
but to Joe it seemed that she took things in an irritatingly leisurely
manner. With but sixteen minutes’ leeway at the end of his journey, he
was momentarily in fear that something would happen to detain them, and
he viewed his watch anxiously as, having made a perfectly ridiculous
stop of four minutes at Folkstone, Forty-nine rolled off again into
the night. However, a comparison of his time and that indicated on the
time-table with which he had armed himself showed no discrepancy, and
he settled back in his seat with a sigh of relief. Fostoria was the
next stop and he anxiously awaited it, wondering whether he would find
a message from the agent.
Now that he was absolutely embarked on his mission he began to wonder
if he was not undertaking a foolish and hopeless quest. It had looked
quite simple and easy back there at Amesville, but doubts assailed him
now. There were so many chances against success. Young might go on
to Sandusky or he might lose himself in Fremont, deciding to remain
the night there, or he might take that local to Norwalk. Even if Joe
found him he might be no better off! How was he to persuade Young to
give up the money? If he called on the police for help there might be
all sorts of complications. Joe wasn’t certain that it would not be
necessary for him to swear out a warrant first, by which time Young
would be on his way to Toledo or elsewhere. He took out his money and
counted it over. He had exactly five dollars and thirty-seven cents
left after purchasing his ticket to Fremont. Of that amount a dollar
and forty-five cents would be needed for his journey back to Amesville.
A dollar-forty-five from five-thirty-seven left three dollars and
ninety-two cents. On that he could travel something like a hundred and
thirty miles, he reflected. Very well, then. He would go along with
Young until that youth made restitution or until he had exhausted what
money he had. After that he would telegraph to Aunt Sarah for money
to get home with. In any case, the police were to have no part in the
affair!
The train slowed down while he was reaching this decision and the
trainman, opening the door ahead, let in a gust of cold air and
announced Fostoria. Another seemingly interminable wait, and then the
train went on again, and just as Joe had given up hope of that message
it came.
“Telegram for Joseph Faulkner,” said the conductor questioningly as he
came through the car.
“That’s me, please,” said Joe.
“Here you are, then, my boy.” Joe took the sheet of buff paper and
read: “Amesville. Jos. Faulkner, on No. 49, Fostoria. Harris wires
party got off Fremont and said he was going to Cleveland. Think that’s
a stall. Toledo the best guess. Good luck. CHASE.”
Joe folded the message and put it in his pocket. Undoubtedly Mr. Chase
was right about it. Young would not announce his real destination and
if he had said Cleveland it was safe to say that he meant to journey in
another direction. Joe settled back again, tipped his cap over his eyes
to keep the light out and tried to plan what he should do and say if
he was lucky enough to discover Young at Fremont. In the end, though,
he reached no very clear conclusion, and while he was still trying to
formulate a speech with which to greet the absconding clerk the train
rattled over the switches, green and purple and red and white lights
flashed past the window and the trainman was bawling:
“Fremont! Fremont! Change for Norwalk, Elyria, Cleveland, Toledo, and
points east and west! This train for Sandusky and Port Clinton!”
Joe followed a dozen other passengers through the car door and down
to the platform. A glance at his watch had shown him that Forty-nine,
in spite of her unhurried progress, had arrived exactly on time.
Consequently he had sixteen minutes in which to search the station and
platform before the west-bound express drew out. He still kept his
cap pulled down in front, trusting that if Mr. Chester Young saw him
he would not recognise him. The platform was fairly crowded and Joe
made his way along to the door of the waiting-room, keeping as much as
possible out of sight. It took but a moment to satisfy himself that
his quarry was not inside. Then he went on to the end of the platform
without result, retraced his steps, reached the other end and paused
there in the shadow of a piled-up truck. Mr. Chester Young was not
to be seen. Five minutes had already gone by. Joe’s hope began to
dwindle. After all, he reflected, it had been too much to expect;
given a start of two hours and a half, Young would have been an idiot
if he had not eluded pursuit. And yet, on the other hand, what reason
had Young to suppose that either of the boys whose money he had taken
would go to the length of chasing him down? Joe didn’t believe that
Young would give either him or Jack credit for having enough enterprise
to do that. And if he didn’t really expect pursuit he wouldn’t try very
hard to elude it.
Joe gathered courage again and sought the ticket-window in the
waiting-room. By this time the platform had almost emptied, but at the
ticket-window several persons were in line and now and then the door
opened to admit other passengers for the west-bound train. Joe gave up
the idea of inquiring of the ticket-seller and inspected a time-table
instead. The west-bound arrived in Fremont at nine-fifty-nine and
remained there five minutes. It would come in, then, in just five
minutes if it was on time. That put another idea in his head and he
went back to the platform, keeping his eyes peeled, and sought the
bulletin board there. “No. 16,” he read, “due 9:59, 15 mins. late.”
That, he told himself, would give him more time. He remained where he
was and kept his gaze on the door of the waiting-room. The platform
began to fill up again. A four-car local pulled in, emptied its
contents and puffed out. The clock pointed to one minute of ten now.
It was chilly out there on the platform, for a north wind was blowing
down from Lake Erie, and Joe’s thoughts travelled toward the gleaming
coffee-urn he had glimpsed a few minutes back. For a moment he debated
whether he should seek it and spend a nickel of his small fund, but
he decided not to. If Young did put in an appearance he wanted to
know it as soon as possible. And at that moment his gaze, travelling
over the platform, alighted on the form of a man carrying a suit-case
and making his way along toward where Joe was standing with his
back to the building. For an instant Joe thought that the other had
seen him and was going to speak. But it was the bulletin board that
was the attraction, and Joe, turning aside to escape detection in a
sudden spasm of nervousness, smelt the odour of a cigarette that was
very familiar, heard the other’s grunt of impatience as he read the
inscription on the board, and the tread of his feet as he strode away
again.
Then a mild panic seized Joe and he darted forward. Someone got in
front of him. He dodged around and his heart sank, for his first
anxious look failed to discover the form it sought. He was already
regretting his timorousness when he spied his quarry entering the
waiting-room. Joe sped after him. Mr. Chester Young was making his
way to the ticket window. Joe made a detour and closed in behind
him. At the window he stood at his elbow while he purchased a ticket
for Toledo. Young had, it appeared, plenty of money, for he gave a
twenty-dollar bill to the ticket-seller and caused that busy gentleman
to scowl as he made change. Then Young turned away, walked to the end
of a bench, set his bag down, and proceeded to place the bills and
silver in his purse.
Joe, his heart thumping hard, walked across to him, a slight smile
around his mouth. When he was a yard away Young glanced up and a look
of surprise and consternation came into his face.
“Hello, Young,” said Joe pleasantly. “I was afraid I’d missed you.”