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. "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 God, Bull," he whispered, "do you know what that means? Something's wrong. _She's against our order_."