of
course in nowise aware. Suddenly the hack ahead whirled and came to a
stop. Two figures leaped out into the fog and started on the run.

Jim thrust a coin into the willing grasp of "Bill," and leaped to the
ground closely followed from the cab by John Berwick, leaving the two
drivers to themselves, and only a few yards apart. These worthies taking
no further interest in the performance of their recent fares, engaged in
a wordy altercation as to the rival merits of their steeds, and each had
a different answer to the problem of "who won the race?" The outcome of
this led to blows; as to the result, that belongs to another chronicle
than mine. We are at present concerned with the race between Jim and the
Mexican, with the chief and "Bushy Whiskers" as runners up.

Jim bounded after the fleeing Mexican and his comrade, with all the
speed of his pent-up energy, and was overtaking him rapidly, when what
looked like a high dark rampart showed indistinct through the fog a few
rods ahead. Then the Mexican bent low and darted out of sight, and his
sturdy companion bounding high in the air disappeared.

Jim was thrown suddenly backward; as in mad pursuit, he dashed into an
almost invisible fence of wire, steel colored,--which luckily was not
barbed. The engineer who was a few paces behind, stopped in the nick of
time, his outstretched hand easily breaking the force of his collision.

"Hurt, Jim?" he queried.

"Naw!" replied James. "Come on, John, let's see if you can jump like his
whiskers."

"I'm no rat like that greaser," replied Berwick; "I can't crawl through,
I've got to jump."

He showed himself something of an acrobat by the grace and agility with
which he vaulted the six foot fence, and Jim went over with more power
if less grace. Now they were in a quandary for directly before them was
a wood of the tall and ghostly eucalyptus, into which the two fugitives
had fled.

"We ought to have told our carriage to wait, Jim," said the chief
engineer, with nonchalant humor. "This reminds me of two needles and a
haystack."

"I've got their trail, Chief, come on before it gets too dark," ordered
Jim, who had been casting around like a hound for a scent.

"You are the 'Boy Scout, or the Young Kit Carson,' for fair, James,"
cried Berwick, giving him a hearty slap of admiration between his broad
shoulders.

Jim grinned but made no reply as he followed the trail into the depth of
the wood, which was made weird by the s