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 saw Bill riding on his perch. Behind, Dolf was hanging on and his coat was flapping. They had all made it. Bert gave a shout of exultation and rode up Camel-back like a voyager come to his own.

Bill had told them the truth—at the top the train's speed was down to a crawl. They dropped off and gathered in an eager group. Bert was the first to speak.

"That's what I call sport." His voice shook with excitement. "Are we going to do it again to-morrow night?"

"I am," said Bill. "Some day when I'm president of this railroad you fellows can write a book about how I got my start hanging on to freight cars up Camel-back Hill."

"We want to be quiet about this," Dolf cautioned. "If my father knew about this he'd hammer the tar out of me."

Bill grinned. "I guess I'd get dusted off a bit myself. Make it half-past seven to-morrow night."

They came down the hill and across the tracks. At the yard limits a bulky form blocked their path. Bert caught a faint gleam of brass buttons.

"What you fellows been up to?" demanded a voice of authority.

They had run foul of Patrolman Glynn of the Springham police. Dolf tried to melt into the