Only his right hand reached its goal. This attained a firm grasp on the railing nearest the rear car. His left hand clutched emptily, missing the forward rail. As he had left the station platform before he sprang for the steps, he had not been able to reach the latter with his feet. The most he could attempt was to lodge his knees on the bottom step, and at that he was only half successful. His right knee did get there, but only by a bare inch, while his left leg hung in space. Then the forward impetus of the train swung him around, his right knee slipped off the step and, supported only by his right hand, he hung there, scared, breathless while the train sped on, preparing for its start up the next grade. Try as he might, he could not reach the railing with his left hand, nor could he find the step with his right foot. All he could do was hold agonizingly with that one hand. Beside him the rocky bank of the cut rushed past, at times dangerously close. To let go would mean certain injury, if not death; indeed, it seemed hardly possible that, dropping, he would not be hurled beneath the wheels. He cried out frantically, but the noise of the train, doubled as it was thrown back by the rocky wall, almost drowned his voice. It seemed to Clyde that he had dangled there many minutes, although in reality his plight had lasted but a few seconds, when absolute terror came to him with the knowledge that his grasp on the rail was slipping. One trailing foot struck the end of a tie and he drew his legs up and put his remaining breath in a shrill, agonized shout. Barry had remained on the car platform until the train was well under way, ignorant of the narrow escape from being left behind that had threatened the handful of adventurous youths who had gone back to the bridge, an escape that had moved the remaining occupants of the car to laughter. Slamming the door behind him, he stepped back to his seat beside Smythe and settled his feet again on his suit-case. As he did so a sound came to him above the rattle and jar of the train, a sound that startled him until he laid it to the screeching of the wheel flanges against the curving rails. It came again as, discovering that his backward thrust at the door had failed to close it, he once more arose and approached the platform. As he stood there, the door-knob in his hand, the strange sound fell once more on his ears and seemed to turn his heart over. Instinctively he sprang outside, drawing the door shut behind him, and stared about. The platforms and steps of the swaying cars were empty. Still shaken, he turned to reënter the coach and saw a straining hand clasped about a railing. CHAPTER XXIII EVEN-STEVEN “You’d better stay out here a minute,” said Barry, “and get your breath.”