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 night and get away, but the same stern voice bid him halt. A flashlight snapped and shot forth a shaft of radiance. The gleam went across their hands, stained with the rust that gathers on iron and steel left exposed to the weather—hand rods, for instance.

"Hooking train rides," said the policeman. They made no denial. The light moved to their faces. They knew that he was identifying them; marking them for future notice. Bert shivered with the dread of possible arrest.

"What's the matter with you kids?" Policeman Glynn demanded. "Lost your senses? Want to get shipped to the undertaker's? Let me catch you down here again and I'll run you in."

So he wasn't going to arrest them, at any rate. Bert swallowed the lump that had tightened his throat and edged away. The light snapped out. He took to his heels and heard the patter of Bill's and Dolf's feet in his rear.

Not until they were safely back in town did they check their pace. For a block or two they walked in silence.

"I guess that ends our rides," Dolf said at last.

"I guess it doesn't," Bill Harrison retorted.

"But he said he'd lock us. . . ."

"Sure; if he catches us. How about going into the yard at a different place and coming out at that place? Shucks, he can't be everywhere at once, can he? He's got only two feet. We don't