At the next stop, as we ran forward along the track, I counted but fifteen of us.  Five had been ditched.  The weeding-out process had begun nobly, and it continued station by station.  Now we were fourteen, now twelve, now eleven, now nine, now eight.  It reminded me of the ten little niggers of the nursery rhyme.  I was resolved that I should be the last little nigger of all.  And why not?  Was I not blessed with strength, agility, and youth? (I was eighteen, and in perfect condition.) And didn’t I have my “nerve” with me?  And furthermore, was I not a tramp-royal?  Were not these other tramps mere dubs and “gay-cats” and amateurs alongside of me?  If I weren’t the last little nigger, I might as well quit the game and get a job on an alfalfa farm somewhere.

By the time our number had been reduced to four, the whole train-crew had become interested.  From then on it was a contest of skill and wits, with the odds in favor of the crew.  One by one the three other survivors turned up missing, until I alone remained.  My, but I was proud of myself!  No Croesus was ever prouder of his first million.  I was holding her down in spite of two brakemen, a conductor, a fireman, and an engineer.

And here are a few samples of the way I held her down.  Out ahead, in the darkness,—­so far ahead that the shack riding out the blind must perforce get off before it reaches me,—­I get on.  Very well.  I am good for another station.  When that station is reached, I dart ahead again to repeat the manoeuvre.  The train pulls out.  I watch her coming.  There is no light of a lantern on the blind.  Has the crew abandoned the fight?  I do not know.  One never knows, and one must be prepared every moment for anything.  As the first blind comes opposite me, and I run to leap aboard, I strain my eyes to see if the shack is on the platform.  For all I know he may be there, with his lantern doused, and even as I spring upon the steps that lantern may smash down upon my head.  I ought to know.  I have been hit by lanterns two or three times.

But no, the first blind is empty.  The train is gathering speed.  I am safe for another station.  But am I?  I feel the train slacken speed.  On the instant I am alert.  A manoeuvre is being executed against me, and I do not know what it is.  I try to watch on both sides at once, not forgetting to keep track of the tender in front of me.  From any one, or all, of these three directions, I may be assailed.

Ah, there it comes.  The shack has ridden out the engine.  My first warning is when his feet strike the steps of the right-hand side of the blind.  Like a flash I am off the blind to the left and running ahead past the engine.  I lose myself in the darkness.  The situation is where it has been ever since the train left Ottawa.  I am ahead, and the train must come past me if it is to proceed on its journey.  I have as good a chance as ever for boarding her.