Part 34 (1/2)

”Monkeys,” said Hogan, and he clipped the word off without any undue cordiality.

”How?” inquired Burke.

”Monkeys,” said Hogan--a little more brittle than before.

”Monkeys?” repeated Burke politely.

”Yes, monkeys!” roared Hogan, dancing up and down with the pain of his scalded hands. ”Monkeys--that's plain enough, ain't it? Monkeys, blast you!--MONKEYS!”

To the group came one of the circus men.

”The door of the monkey car is open!” he announced breathlessly. ”The monkeys have escaped.”

”You don't say!” said Coussirat heavily.

”Yes,” said the circus man. ”And, look here, we'll have to find them; they couldn't have got away from the train until it stopped just now.”

”Are they intelligent,” inquired Coussirat in a velvet voice, ”same as the billboards say?”

”Of course,” said the circus man anxiously.

”Well, then, just write them a letter and let them know when to be on hand for the next performance,” said Coussirat grimly. ”There's lots of time--we can hang around here and stall the line for another hour or two, anyway!”

Burke and Hogan were in earnest consultation.

”We're close on the Limited's time as it is,” said Hogan. ”And look at that cab.”

”We'd better back up to the Forks, then, and let her cross us there, that's the safest thing to do,” said Burke--and swung his lamp.

”Look here,” said the circus man, ”we've got to find those monkeys.”

Burke looked at him unhappily--monkeys had thrown their meeting point out--and there was the trainmaster to talk to when they got back to Big Cloud.

”Unless you want to spend the night here you'd better climb aboard,” he snapped. ”All right, Hogan--back away!” And he swung his lamp again.

Ten minutes later, as the Circus Special took the Angel Forks siding and the front-end brakeman was throwing the switch clear again for the main line, a chime whistle came ringing long, imperiously, from the curve ahead. Fatty Hogan's face went white; he was standing up in the cab and close to Coussirat, and he clasped the fireman's arm. ”What's that?” he cried.

The answer came with a rush--a headlight cut streaming through the night, there was a tattoo of beating trucks, an eddying roar of wind, a storm of exhausts, a flash of window lights like scintillating diamonds, and the Limited, pounding the fish-plates at sixty miles an hour, was in and out--and _gone_.

Hogan sank weakly down on his seat, and a bead of sweat spurted from his forehead.

”My G.o.d, Bull,” he whispered, ”do you know what that means?

Something's wrong. _She's against our order_.”

They found the Kid and Dan McGrew, and they got the Kid into little Doctor McTurk's hands at Big Cloud--but it was eight weeks and more, while the boy raved and lay in stupor, before they got the story. Then the Kid told it to Carleton in the super's office late one afternoon when he was convalescent--told him the bald, ugly facts in a sort of hopeless way.

Carleton listened gravely; it had come near to being a case of more lives gone out on the Circus Special and the Limited that night than he cared to think about. He listened gravely, and when the Kid had finished, Carleton, in that quiet way of his, put his finger instantly on the crux of the matter--not sharply, but gently, for the Kid had played a man's part, and ”Royal” Carleton loved a man.

”Was it worth it, Keene?” he asked. ”Why did you try to s.h.i.+eld McGrew?”