Ninety-Seven, anyhow? Thought you said she was on time?"
"So she is," said MacDonald, grinning. "Hear her?"
From the eastward came the hoarse shriek from the whistle of a five-hundred class.
"Guess I'll go down," said Thornley. "Coming?"
MacDonald nodded and got up from his chair.
The two men reached the platform in time to acknowledge a flirt of the hand from Sanders in the cab as the big machine, wheel-tires sparking from the tight-set brakes, rolled slowly past them, coming to a halt farther on.
Simultaneously the door of the lunch-room swung wide open, and on the threshold, completely filling the opening with his bulk, stood Dutchy. In his left hand he held his bell, which he began to ring clamorously; in his right hand, almost but not quite concealed behind his apron, was no less a weapon than a substantial-looking rolling-pin. A crowd of passengers began to surge toward the restaurant, and among them mingled the hungry railroad men of Dry Notch.
"Come on!" shouted Thornley exultantly. "I knew he'd have to open up. Here's where we feed—h'm?"
"Vait!" cried Dutchy imperiously, as the head of the column reached him. "You, yess; you, no. Vat iss it?" He was sorting the sheep from the goats, allowing the passengers to enter, pushing the railroaders ruthlessly to one side.
