Striking a light, he glanced quickly about him; then the match
went out.
"I'm in a freight car," he gasped. "But where, where?"
There was no answer to this puzzling question. Phil struggled to
his feet, and, groping his way to the door, began tugging at it
to get it open. The door refused to budge.
"Locked! It's locked on the outside! What shall I do?
What shall I do?" he cried.
Phil sat down weak and dizzy. There was nothing, so far as
he could see, that could be done to liberate himself from
his imprisonment. Chancing to put his hand to his head,
he discovered a lump there as large as a goose egg.
"I know--let me think--something--somebody must have hit me an
awful crack. Now I remember--yes, I remember falling down in the
yard there just as if something had struck me. Who could have
done such a cruel thing?"
Phil thought and thought, but the more he thought about it the
more perplexed did he become. All at once he started up,
with a sudden realization that the train was slowing down.
He could hear the air brakes grating and grinding and squealing
against the car wheels below him, until finally the train came to
a dead stop.
"Now is my chance to make somebody hear," Phil cried, springing
up and groping for the door again.
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