The train was the east-bound overland, and it seemed hours before the baggage was taken aboard and the signal given to start. I grew uneasy, but as my watch assured me that only ten minutes had passed when the engine gave the first gentle pull at the train, I suspected that I was losing the gift of patience. The train had not gathered headway before a man bent beside me, and Abrams' voice spoke softly in my ear. “There are two of 'em aboard.” “Yes? Where did you find them?” I asked. “In the stoke hole. I hid behind a bench till every one had gone and saw 'em crawl out. They bribed a fireman or deck-hand or some one to keep 'em under cover. They got off the boat at the last minute, and I sneaked after 'em.” “And they're on the train?” “Yes, three cars back,--next to the sleepers. Shall we chuck 'em overboard as soon as we get out of Oakland?” “Not unless we are attacked,” I returned. “Just sit down by the rear door and give the signal if they come this way. There'll be no trouble if they are only two.” My precautions were not called to a test, and we reached Livermore at near eleven o'clock, without further incident than a report from Abrams that the spies of the enemy got off the train at every station and watched for our landing. Yet when we stood on the platform of the bare little station at Livermore and saw the yellow cars crawling away on their eastward journey, we looked in vain for the men who had tracked us. “Fooled, by thunder!” said Fitzhugh with a laugh in which the others joined. “They're off for Sacramento.” “They'll have to earn their money to find us there,” said Abrams. The gray day had become grayer, and the wind blew fresh in our faces with the smell of rain heavy upon it, as we sought the hotel. It was a bare country place, yet trees grew by the hotel and there were vines climbing about its side, and it looked as though we might be comfortable for a day, should we have to stay there so long. “Plenty of room,” said the landlord rubbing his hands. “Are there any letters here for Henry Wilton?” I inquired, bethinking me that orders might have been sent me already. “No, sir.” “Nor telegrams?” “O Lord, no, sir. We don't have telegrams here unless somebody's dead.” “You may give me Mr. Wilton's mail if any comes,” I said. The landlord led the way up the stairs, and beguiled me by informing me what a fine house he had and how hard the times were. “We wish a large room, you know, where we can be together,” I said, “and sleeping-rooms adjoining.” “Here's just the place for you,” said the landlord, taking the way to the end of the upper hall and throwing open a double door. “This is the up-stairs parlor, but I can let you have it. There's this large bedroom opening off it,--the corner bedroom, sir,--and this small one here at this side opens into the parlor and the hall. Perhaps you would like this other one, too.” He seemed ready and anxious to rent us the whole house.