“Well, I’ll be spiked!” said Phelan, vastly amused.  “I wouldn’t ‘a’ thought it of a nice, friendly scarecrow like that!  Buncoed me, didn’t he?  Well, feathers don’t always make the jail-bird.  Wonder what poor devil wore ’em last?  Peeled out of ’em in this very shed, like as not.  Well, they’ll serve my purpose all right, all right.”

He took off his shoes, placed them under his head for a pillow, lit a short cob pipe, threw on fresh wood, and prepared to wait for his clothes to dry.

Meanwhile the question of the banquet revolved itself continually in his mind.  This time to-morrow night, the preparations would be in full swing.  Instead of being hungry, half naked, and chilled, he might be in a luxurious club-house dallying with caviar, stuffed olives, and Benedictine.  All that lay between him and bliss were two hundred miles of railroad ties and a decent suit of clothes!

“Wake up, Corp; for the love of Mike be sociable!” cried Phelan when the situation became too gloomy to contemplate.  “Ain’t that like a dog now?  Hold your tongue when I’m longing for a word of kindly sympathy an’ encouragement, and barking your fool head off once we get on the freight.  Much good it’ll be doing us to get to Nashville in this fix, but we’ll take our blessings as they come, Corp, and just trust to luck that somebody will forget to turn ’em off.  I know when I get to the banquet there’ll be one other man absent.  That’s Bell of Terre Haute.  Him and me is always in the same boat, he gets ten thousand a year and ain’t got the nerve to spend it, and I get fifteen a month, and ain’t got the nerve to keep it!  Poor old Bell.”

Corporal, roused from his slumbers, sniffed inquiringly at the many garments spread about the fire, yawned, turned around several times in dog fashion, then curled up beside Phelan, signifying by his bored expression that he hadn’t the slightest interest in the matter under discussion.

Gradually the darkness closed in, and the fire died to embers.  It would be four hours before the night freight slowed up at the water tank, and Phelan, tired from his long tramp, and drowsy from the heat and the vapor rising from the drying clothes, shifted the shoe-buttons from under his left ear, and drifted into dreamland.

How long he slept undisturbed, only the scarecrow outside knew.  He was dimly aware, in his dreams, of subdued sounds and, by and by, the sounds formed themselves into whispered words and, still half asleep, he listened.

“I thought we’d find him along here.  This is the road they always take,” a low voice was saying; “you and Sam stand here, John and me’ll tackle him from this side.  He’ll put up a stiff fight, you bet.”

Phelan opened his eyes, and tried to remember where he was.

“Gosh! look at that bulldog!” came another whisper, and at the same moment Corporal jumped to his feet, growling angrily.

As he did so, four men sprang through the opening of the shed, and seized Phelan by the arms and legs.