"Dab, it was right along here."

"What was?"

"Where the pig had his collision with my train, first time I was over
here."

"Did you hear him squeal?" asked Frank, as he peered through the window.

"The pig? No; but you ought to have heard the engine squeal, when it saw
him coming."

The story had to be all told over again, of course, and did good service
in getting their thoughts in order for the trip before them. Up to the
mention of the pig, it had somehow seemed to Dab as if the
railway-platform at the station, and all the people on it, had kept
company with the train; and Frank Harley found himself calculating the
distance between that car and the "mission" at Rangoon in far-away
India.

As for Ford Foster, he stood in less need of any "pig" than the rest,
from the fact that he had a large-sized idea in his head.

He kept it there, too, until that train pulled up within reaching
distance of one of the Brooklyn ferries. Before them lay the swift tide
of the broad East River; and beyond that, with its borders of crowded
docks and bristling masts, lay the streets and squares, and swarmed the
multitudes, of the great city of New York.

"Ford," said Dabney, "you're captain this time. What are we to do now?"