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"North Bend all right," he whispered. "Ssh! Listen! Nobody near, I think."

"Go to it," said Hank.

It is a contorting performance to get through these end wickets. They are just high enough from the floor, and of sufficient smallness of height and breadth, to make it difficult, having got one leg out, to wriggle out. One cannot just hang out, head first, and slide, as in a sort of dive, on to the bumpers, and there is nothing to grab on the roof above, so as to allow of one swinging out feet first, sitting on the wicket's edge and then glissading off on to the bumper. One gets out like a distraught frog. Slim went first and then reached in for his blanket-roll, which we passed to him. Then he disappeared, dropped like a cat to the track, and we heard his voice, guardedly:

"All right. Come on."

Out went Hank, twisted, puffing, murmuring blasphemy over the contortions necessary, and then standing on the bumper reached back for his blankets and told me to give him mine also. I handed both rolls to him.