"Where are we, do you know?" he asked. Archie thought. "That must be Fifteenth Street down there. Yes, there’s the gas house." He pointed to a dark mass looming in the night. "And the canal--and yes, Maynard’s lumber-yard’s right beyond." "How far from the spill?" "About three blocks." "Come on, we must get out on the main stem." They went on, but in the security they felt at not being followed, they ran no more, but paced rapidly along, side by side. They had not had the time nor the breath for talk, but now suddenly, Archie, in a tone that paid tribute to Curly’s powers, expressed the subliminal surprise he had had. "How did you know the bulls was there?" "I piked off the elbow just as we went in." "I didn’t see him," said Archie. "Where was he?" "Right across the street, planted in a doorway." "How do you suppose he’d spotted us?" "Oh, he was layin’ for you, that’s all. He had it all framed up. He thought he’d job you and swell himself." "What do you think of that now!" They reached the yard where the black shadows cast by the tall leaning piles of lumber welcomed them like friends, and through this they passed, coming out at length on the railroad. They reconnoitered. The sky of the October night was overcast by thin clouds which, gray at first, turned bright silver as they flew beneath the risen moon. "The dog’s out," said Curly, who had almost as many names for the moon as a poet. Before them the rails gleamed and glinted; over the yards myriads of switch-lights glowed red and green, sinister and confusing. Not far away a switch-engine stood, leisurely working the pump of its air-brake, emitting steamy sighs, as if it were snatching a moment’s rest from its labors. On the damp and heavy air the voices of the engineer and fireman were borne to them. At times other switch-engines slid up and down the tracks. Curly and Archie sat down in the shadow of the lumber and waited. After a while, down the rails a white light swung in an arc, the resting switch-engine moved and began to make up a freight-train. "Now’s our chance," said Curly. The switch-engine went to and fro and up and down, whistling now and then, ringing its bell constantly, drawing cars back and forth interminably, pulling strings of them here and there, adding to and taking from its train, stopping finally for a few minutes while a heavy passenger-train swept by, its sleeping-cars all dark, rolling heavily, mysteriously, their solid wheels clicking delicately over the joints of the rails. "I wish we were on that rattler," said Archie, with the longing a departing train inspires, and more than the normal longing. Curly laughed. "The John O’Brien’s good enough for us," he said.