Part 33 (2/2)

Coussirat listened. Every conceivable kind of an animal on earth seemed to be lifting its voice to High Heaven in earnest protest for some cause or other--the animals, beyond any peradventure of doubt, were displeased with their accommodations, uncomfortable, and indignantly uneasy. The rattle of the train was a paltry thing--over it hyenas laughed, lions roared, elephants trumpeted, and giraffes emitted whatever noises giraffes emit. It was a medley fit for Bedlam, from shrill, whistling, piercing shrieks that set the ear-drums tingling, to hoa.r.s.e, cavernous bellows like echoing thunder.

”Must be something wrong with the animals,” said Coussirat, with an appreciative grin. ”They weren't yowling like that when we started--guess they don't like their Pullmans.”

”It's enough to give you the creeps,” growled Fatty Hogan.

Coussirat reached for the chain, and with an expert flip flung wide the furnace door--and the bright glow lighted up the heavens and shot the black of the cab into leaping, fiery red. Coussirat swung around, reaching for his shovel--and grabbed Hogan's arm instead, as a chorus of unearthly, chattering shrieks rent the air.

”For the love of Mike, for G.o.d's sake, Fatty,” he gasped, ”look at that!”

Perched on the tender, on the top of the water tank, just beyond the edge of the coal, sat a well-developed and complacent ape--and, as Coussirat looked, from the roof of the property car, behind the tender, another swung to join the first.

”Jiminy Christmas!” yelled Hogan, screwed around in his seat. ”The whole blasted tribe of monkeys is loose! That's what's wrong with the rest of the animals--the little devils have probably been teasing them through the barred air-holes at the ends of the cars. Look at 'em!

Look at 'em come!”

Coussirat was looking--he hadn't stopped looking. Along the roof of the property car they came, a chattering, jabbering, swaying string of them--and on the brake wheel two sat upright, lurching and clinging for dear life, the short hair blown straight back from their foreheads with the sweep of the wind, while they peered with earnest, strained faces into the cab. And the rest, two dozen strong now, ma.s.sed on the roof of the property car, perilously near the edges for anything but monkeys, inspected the cab critically, picked at each other's hides, made gestures, some of which were decidedly uncomplimentary, and chattered volubly to their leaders already on the tender. The tender seemed to appeal. Down came another monkey via the brake-rod, and swung by its tail with a sort of flying-trapeze effect to the tender--and what one did another did--the accommodation on the water tank was being crowded--the front rank moved up on the coal.

”Say!” bawled Coussirat to his mate. ”Say, Fatty, get up and give 'em your seat--there's ladies present. And say, what are we going to do about it? The little pets ought to be put back to bed.”

”Do nothing!” snapped Hogan, one wary eye on the monkeys, and the other on the right of way ahead. ”If the circus people don't know enough to shut their d.a.m.ned beasts up properly it's their own lookout--it's not our funeral, whatever happens.”

The advance guard of the monkeys had approached too close to the crest of the high-piled coal, and as a result, while they scrambled back for firmer footing, they sent a small avalanche of it rolling into the cab.

This was touching Coussirat personally--and Coussirat glared.

Coussirat was no nature faker--he knew nothing about animals, their habits, peculiarities, or characteristics. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up a piece of coal, and heaved it at the nearest monkey.

”Get out, you little devil--_scut_!” he shouted--and missed--and the effect was disconcerting to Coussirat.

Monkeys are essentially imitative, earnestly so--and not over-timid when in force--they imitated Coussirat. Before he could get his breath, first one and then another began to pick up hunks of coal and heave them back--and into the cab poured a rain of missiles. For an instant, a bare instant, Coussirat stood his ground, then he dove for the shelter of his seat. Soft coal? Yes--but there are some fairish lumps even in soft coal.

Crash went the plate-gla.s.s face of the steam gauge! It was a good game, a joyous game--and there was plenty of coal, hunks and hunks of it--and plenty of monkeys, ”the largest and most intelligent collection on earth,” the billboards said.

Crash went the cab gla.s.s behind Fatty Hogan's head--and the monkeys shrieked delight. They hopped and jumped and performed gyrations over each other, those in the rear; while those on the firing line, with stern, screwed up, wizened faces, blinking furiously, swung their hairy arms--and into the cab still poured the hail of coal.

With a yell of rage, clasping at his neck where the gla.s.s had cut him, Fatty Hogan bounced forward in his seat.

”You double-blanked, blankety-blanked, triple-plated a.s.s!” he bellowed at Coussirat. ”You--you _d.a.m.ned_ fool, you!” he screamed. ”Didn't you know any better than that! Drive 'em off with the hose--turn the hose on them!”

”Turn it on yourself,” said Coussirat sullenly; he was full length on his seat, and mindful that his own gla.s.s might go as Hogan's had.

”D'ye think I'm looking for glory and a wreath of immortelles?”

Funny? Well, perhaps. Is this sacrilege--to say it wasn't luck?

Cras.h.!.+ There was a hiss of steam, a scalding stream of water, and in a moment the cab was in a white cloud. Mechanically, Hogan slammed his throttle shut, and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the ”air.” It was the water gla.s.s--and the water gla.s.s sometimes is a nasty matter. Coussirat was on his feet now like a flash, and both men, clamped-jawed, groped for the c.o.c.k; and neither got off scathless before they shut it--and by then the train had stopped, and not a monkey was in sight.

Jimmie Burke, the conductor, came running up from the rear end, as Coussirat and Hogan swung out of the gangway to the ground.

”What's wrong?” demanded Burke--he had his watch in his hand.

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