road junction yard. Under the white glare and the black shadows of the arc lights, the workmen seemed gigantic and unreal. Work cars, behind puffing engines, rolled up and down the grade, and brakemen, waving their lanterns, lightly swung on and off while the wheels were in motion.
"I'll bet we could do that," Bert said suddenly.
Dolf was doubtful. "Getting on might not be so hard, but how about swinging off?"
"The engine always slows down before it gets to the top of the hill. It scarcely crawls. That's the time to swing off."
Bill Harrison cocked his head to one side and surveyed the scene. "I'm going to try that some night," he drawled.
They knew that he was fooling. And yet, as the days passed, they began to speak about it, conjuring up the sensation of swinging aboard, feeling the air sweep past them as they clung to the step and the hand rods, imagining themselves dropping off with the ease of the trainmen. The risk began to wear the garb of enticing adventure.
Snow came about this time, sixteen inches of it in one fall. The spreading railroad yard was buried under a soggy blanket, and the boys ceased to go there and ceased to talk about the prospect of riding the cars. The weather left little to do, and Bert turned to his school books. In truth, they had been neglected of late and the monthly report he brought home that same week ran
