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The shunting of a freight-train is a noisy and jolting proceeding. That punch coming along, car after car, hitting the car one is on, and passing on, is somehow very exhilarating—I don't say it is comfortable—exhilarating it is. I think the thrill comes from the knowledge that just outside are brakemen at work, creating all these tugs and bumps, with wave of arm or lantern, while here are we, unbeknown, joggled jocundly inside.

Darkness fell, after that knocking about, as we went rolling on, swaying round curves, slacking up with buffer impacts and clash of chains, followed by sudden tugs, through the night. I began to feel sleepy, when suddenly a match spurted alight in Hank's hand and he lit a cigarette.

"Well, by gosh!" broke out Slim. "After what you said! And it's time to sleep now, anyhow. Now maybe they'll smell us out and we won't get no sleep, get flung off."

"Oh, there are limits, limits," replied Hank. "We're doing fine. A man must have his two draws before turning in, especially if he's had no supper."