The
train had not yet got under way, but its speed was increasing and the
runner's chances lessened every moment.
"He'll never catch it," said the gate-keeper. "He'd lost his wind before
he got here."
"He ain't lost his nerve," said a negro porter, craning his neck in
lively interest. "He's lettin' hisself go lak a Derby-winner on de home
stretch!"
"Has he give up?" asked the gate-keeper, turning aside to stamp a ticket.
"Not him. He's bound to ketch dat train ef it busts a hamstring. He's
done got holt de rear platform! He's pullin' hisself up! There! I tole
you so! I knowed he was the kind of fellow that gits what he goes after."
Quin caught the train, but he paid for his run. A brakeman found him
collapsed on the platform, in such a paroxysm of coughing that the train
had covered many miles before he was sufficiently recovered to go inside
and take a seat. But, even as he leaned back limp and exhausted, he was
conscious of a dull satisfaction that he was traveling toward Eleanor. He
refused to think of the absurdity of his wild quest, of her probable
anger at his interference. He fought back his despair, his jealousy, his
inordinate fear.
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