They reached the train depot just as the last whistle blew. Guthrie quickly bought two one-way tickets, and before Clarence could catch up to him, he was already chasing after the locomotive's trailing coach. Clarence tried his best to pick up the pace, but it was nearly futile. He gasped, short of breath, as the train chugged out of the station, but he did not give up.
"Wait!" Guthrie called out as the train picked up speed. He gestured toward the conductor's assistant standing just outside the caboose.
The fellow leaned back against the door with his arms crossed and chuckled, watching the two Englishmen run after the train.
"Englishters," he muttered, chewing a sizeable wad of tobacco that deformed his left cheek. "Dumb, stupid Englishters."
"I-I say, please stop!" Clarence hollered, ignorant of the fact that once in motion, trains seldom stop for anyone. He stumbled along the tracks and nearly fell as his luggage threw him off balance.
The American chuckled and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice through the air. Clarence cried out in disgust as the stuff slopped across the rails in front of him.
"What was that?"
"'Bacco juice, Englishter! Want some more?" He spewed another arc, and it shot straight at Clarence, slapping against his forehead and oozing down into his eyes, causing him to nearly freeze up with overwhelming revulsion.
"Keep running, sir!" Guthrie reached the caboose railing and grasped at it.
The American gave a snort of disgust and entered the caboose, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving the two Englishmen with the sound of its bolt sliding into place.
"Oh blast it all, Guthrie!" Clarence shouted, more than a few yards behind his butler. The locomotive was gaining momentum while he lost speed with every stride. "We'll never make it, old boy. And we're locked out, besides!"
Guthrie made no reply. He was just inches away from grabbing hold of the railing, and his eyes were set with determination. "We shall not fail, Master Clarence."
There had never been a middle ground for Guthrie; there was only success or failure. Once his mind was set, there could be no swaying him from his course. Clarence had always admired him for it. But not now.
"Give up, old chap. It's impossible!"
Guthrie's fingertips touched the iron railing. His fingers slowly curled around the bar. He swung his luggage up, and it landed on the caboose platform with a resounding thud. Then he gripped the bar tightly, his legs somehow keeping pace with the train. He took a quick breath, and then he pulled himself upward and lunged forward at the same moment, diving over the railing and hitting the platform with a short groan.
Clarence could not believe his eyes. He'd never seen anything like it—from the old butler or anyone else, for that matter. How could a man Guthrie's age do such a thing?
"Master Clarence, toss me your baggage!"
The old butler stood disheveled but otherwise none the worse for wear, stretching out both arms to catch Clarence's bags.
"Guthrie, you're a wonder!" Clarence heaved his luggage upward, one parcel at a time, and Guthrie caught them and set them down at his feet.
The train whistle shrilled. Smoke billowed into the sky as the locomotive accelerated.
Clarence ran as fast as he could. Although free from the weight of his baggage, he still didn't seem to be gaining any ground on the caboose. He gasped for breath and gritted his teeth, chugging like a locomotive himself, putting every last ounce of strength into his legs. And yet, despite his great effort, it was in vain. He could not catch the train. It was not in the realm of possibility. A more logical choice presented itself: give into his burning muscles and collapse right then and there.
"You must hurry, Master Clarence," Guthrie urged, his hand held out as far as it could reach. "You must run faster, sir."
Under normal circumstances, Clarence might have cursed the old butler for stating the obvious. And he probably would have, had only his throat not been so dry, or if his tongue had not been cleaving to the roof of his mouth, or if his lungs had not felt as though they would burst at any moment—all new experiences for him, occupying much of his attention at the moment.
Why am I doing this? His consciousness drifted away, seeming to float above the situation as a spectator. I hate it here already. These Yanks are either drunk or spitting at me. I never should have left home!
But then the words he'd written to his mother returned to his mind: "I want to do something..."
And they gave him a change in attitude, if not of heart.
Well, I'm doing something now, that's for certain. And I suppose I'd rather be here running after this blasted train than lolling about at home, wasting my days on—
"Give me your hand, sir!"
Guthrie's voice shattered his thoughts. He stared through bleary eyes to find himself within reach of the caboose. He had no idea how he'd gotten so close.
"Your hand, sir!" Guthrie leaned over the railing with both arms extended.
As if in a dream, Clarence reached upward with a sluggish arm seemingly detached from his shoulder, moving incredibly slow and weighing so very much.
"Up you go," Guthrie grunted, clasping his master's hand and forearm in a vice-like grip. A moment later, Clarence found himself hoisted up into the air and onto the caboose platform, clearing the railing and slamming against the door, throwing it wide open in spite of the lock.
Guthrie could only stare at what he'd done.
"Forgive me..." He knelt at his young master's side. "Sir?" He checked Clarence's jugular vein for a pulse. "Are you all right?"