All this took time.  More than an hour and a half had elapsed since his arrival at the empty car.  And now, for the first time, he dropped out of his saddle and down into the car.  He removed the detaining ropes, and the trolley-wheels began slowly to revolve.  The car was moving, and he knew that somewhere beyond, although he could not see, the car of Spillane was likewise moving, and in the opposite direction.

There was no need for a brake, for his weight sufficiently counterbalanced the weight in the other car; and soon he saw the cliff rising out of the cloud depths and the old familiar drum going round and round.

Jerry climbed out and made the car securely fast.  He did it deliberately and carefully, and then, quite unhero-like, he sank down by the drum, regardless of the pelting storm, and burst out sobbing.

There were many reasons why he sobbed—­partly from the pain of his hands, which was excruciating; partly from exhaustion; partly from relief and release from the nerve-tension he had been under for so long; and in a large measure from thankfulness that the man and woman were saved.

They were not there to thank him; but somewhere beyond that howling, storm-driven gulf he knew they were hurrying over the trail toward the Clover Leaf.

Jerry staggered to the cabin, and his hand left the white knob red with blood as he opened the door, but he took no notice of it.

He was too proudly contented with himself, for he was certain that he had done well, and he was honest enough to admit to himself that he had done well.  But a small regret arose and persisted in his thoughts—­if his father had only been there to see!

CHRIS FARRINGTON:  ABLE SEAMAN

“If you vas in der old country ships, a liddle shaver like you vood pe only der boy, und you vood wait on der able seamen.  Und ven der able seaman sing out, ‘Boy, der water-jug!’ you vood jump quick, like a shot, und bring der water-jug.  Und ven der able seaman sing out, ’Boy, my boots!’ you vood get der boots.  Und you vood pe politeful, und say ‘Yessir’ und ‘No sir.’  But you pe in der American ship, und you t’ink you are so good as der able seamen.  Chris, mine boy, I haf ben a sailorman for twenty-two years, und do you t’ink you are so good as me?  I vas a sailorman pefore you vas borned, und I knot und reef und splice ven you play mit topstrings und fly kites.”

“But you are unfair, Emil!” cried Chris Farrington, his sensitive face flushed and hurt.  He was a slender though strongly built young fellow of seventeen, with Yankee ancestry writ large all over him.

“Dere you go vonce again!” the Swedish sailor exploded.  “My name is Mister Johansen, und a kid of a boy like you call me ‘Emil!’ It vas insulting, und comes pecause of der American ship!”

“But you call me ‘Chris!’” the boy expostulated, reproachfully.

“But you vas a boy.”