The conductor, in the excitement, yelled at the man, bringing the rear brakeman from the smoking-room, followed by the black boy bearing a shoe-brush.
Once more they bore the bad man down, and then the conductor grabbed the rope and signalled the engineer ahead.
Men leaped from their berths, and women showed white faces between the closely drawn curtains.
Once more the conductor pulled the bell, but the train stood still.
One of the passengers picked up the man's hand-grip that had fallen from his berth, and found that the card held in the leather tag read:
"Go forward," shouted the conductor to the rear brakeman, "and get 'em out of here,--tell McNally we've got the ghost."
The detective released his hold on his captive, and the man sank limp in the corner seat.
The company's surgeon, who happened to be on the car, came over and examined the prisoner. The man had collapsed completely.
When the doctor had revived the handcuffed passenger and got him to sit up and speak, the porter, wild-eyed, burst in and shouted: "De bridge is gone."
A death-like hush held the occupants of the car.
"De hangin' bridge is sho' gone," repeated the panting porter, "an' de engine, wi' McNally in de cab's crouchin' on de bank, like a black cat on a well-cu'b. De watah's roahin' in de deep gorge, and if she drap she gwine drag--"
The doctor clapped his hand over the frightened darky's mouth, and the detective butted him out to the smoking-room.
The conductor explained that the porter was crazy, and so averted a panic.
The detective came back and faced the doctor. "Take off the irons," said the surgeon, and the detective unlocked the handcuffs.
Now the doctor, in his suave, sympathetic way, began to question Bradish; and Bradish began to unravel the mystery, pausing now and again to rest, for the ordeal through which he had just passed had been a great mental and nervous strain.
He began by relating the Ashtabula accident that had left him wifeless and childless, and, as the story progressed, seemed to find infinite relief in relating the sad tale of his lonely life. It was like a confession. Moreover, he had kept the secret so long locked in his troubled breast that it was good to pour it out.
The doctor sat directly in front of the narrator, the detective beside him, while interested passengers hung over the backs of seats and blocked the narrow aisle. Women, with faces still blanched, sat up in bed listening breathlessly to the strange story of John Bradish.