“We’ve got t’ git away from here, an’ that mighty quick,” said one of the men, with a glance at the seething inferno beside them. “That car’s loaded with oil, an’ it’s goin’ to blow up in about a minute.” “How’re we goin’ to carry him?” “Roll him on my overcoat—we can carry him that way.” “I don’t want to touch him,” faltered the other. “He—he comes off on your fingers.” But the first watchman, with an exclamation of impatience, spread his overcoat beside the blackened body and rolled it over with his foot. “Now, take a hold of that end,” he said, “an’ git a move on.” They gathered up the burden gingerly, and started away at a trot—not a moment too soon, for they had gone scarcely a hundred feet, when the car exploded with a mighty roar. Blazing oil was hurled over everything in the neighbourhood, and instantly a dozen cars were afire—the flames roaring and crackling furiously before the wind. * * * * * Stanley, awakened by the arrival of a crew from an incoming train and the departure of another to take its place, lay for a while looking down the room and watching the new arrivals prepare for bed. He was a restless man and light sleeper at the best, and he devoutly hoped that the strike was nearing an end. The strain was beginning to tell on his nerves, never any too steady, and he longed for his comfortable and quiet bed. The air in the freight-house had become fetid from the exhalations of fifty men, not over dainty in their personal habits, and with a sudden sense of disgust, Stanley threw back the covers and sat up in bed. As he did so, it seemed to him that he heard a faint knocking at the wall underneath him. He listened a moment, but it was not repeated, and he decided it was merely the vibration from a passing engine. But he was burdened with a queer feeling of suffocation, and slipping into his clothes, he went out to the platform for a breath of fresh air. He was worried. He knew, somehow, that, during his absence in pursuit and prosecution of the robbers, he had lost his grip of the situation. It had got, in some subtle way, beyond his control, and he felt the necessity of being “on the job” at every hour of the day and night. It was as though he were shadowed by some impending calamity, which he could not avoid. He heard steps approaching along the platform and in a moment the freight-house watchman emerged from the darkness. “Everything quiet?” Stanley asked. “Everything but the wind,” answered the watchman, laughing at his own joke, and passed on his way. “Blamed fool!” Stanley muttered to himself, for the jest and the laugh jarred on him. “I’m gettin’ as nervous as a cat,” he added, and walked slowly down the platform, trying to shake off the feeling of depression.