As Fred and I lay side by
side, squeezed together in a trough scarcely big enough for
one, we heard two fellows by the door of the shed talking us
over.
They thought no doubt that we were fast asleep, they
themselves were slightly fuddled. We nudged each other and
pricked up our ears, for we had already canvassed the
question of security, surrounded as we were by ruffians who
looked quite ready to dispose of babes in the wood. They
discussed our 'portable property' which was nil; one decided,
while the other believed, that we must have money in our
pockets. The first remarked that, whether or no, we were
unarmed; the other wasn't so sure about that - it wasn't
likely we'd come there to be skinned for the asking. Then
arose the question of consequences, and it transpired that
neither of them had the courage of his rascality. After a
bit, both agreed they had better turn in. Tired as we were,
we fell asleep. How long we had slumbered I know not, but
all of a sudden I was seized by the beard, and was conscious
of a report which in my dreams I took for a pistol-shot. I
found myself on the ground amid the wrecks of the trestle.
Its joints had given way under the extra weight, and Fred's
first impulse had been to clutch at my throat.
On the way back to San Francisco we stayed for a couple of
nights at Sacramento.
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