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unloading film. She handed the exposed strip to one of the armed boys, clamped the lid into place, and gave the camera back to its owner, a tall German-looking man. He nodded to the girl formally as he took the black case.
    â€œWhy in the world should they do a thing like that?” Peapack whined, sinking back on the gray seat. “I’m so upset; are you upset,Helen?” she started. “I wish you didn’t look so calm; I take things so hard. We’ve got to stick together, that’s all; and we’ve got to find the other Americans on the train. I know there are some, I told you, you know, about the diner; but I think they’re traveling third—and you’ve got to move in here with me; I can’t stand it if things like this happen. It’s only for another hour; when we get to Barcelona, Felipe can take care of us, if there’s any trouble.”
    â€œWhy don’t you come to third, then?” Helen was thinking of Toni and his manager; they would certainly be better than any newspaperman who might be Peapack’s friend.
    â€œBut my suitcase! I’ve got five suitcases, and who’s going to carry them for me? No, you go back, and bring yours here . . . Look,” said Peapack, “just look at the pictures of the children once more.” Her fingers were trembling at the stiff lock on the rawhide suitcase, at the expensive shirring of the pocket, at the leather case. She was twisting the halftones of the knobby children. She showed Helen the pictures she had brought out last night, rushing through France; the boy in the garden, his infantile knees and stiff hair, the little girl’s starched dress standing wide about her legs, making her look narrow and pathetic. “Do go back,” said Peapack; “get your things and bring them in; I can’t stand these stops.”
    ALL THE PASSENGERS in third were filling the aisle now, crowding out the open windows, talking to the groups whose heads could be seen, banked thick against the sides of the train, standing on both sides of the station platform. Helen pushed back through the swarming cars, through the holiday knots, laughter, gossip. An arm reached out and seized her wrist. It was the tight-skinned Hungarian, the manager.
    â€œHave you heard the rumors?” he shouted, over the laughter and talk. “All sorts of rumors, already. The English are saying that the Communists have bombed the tracks and that we can’t go farther;and I heard the Frenchman say that the engineer has gone on strike, and won’t move the train until he gets some kind of extravagant promise.” He fanned himself with the straw hat. “But come in and meet our team, anyway.” The Hungarians were standing, politeness and warmth ran around their compartment. The fine-faced printer was introduced. “It looks like something real,” he said. “But obviously nobody knows what. You probably ought to find the other Americans.”
    â€œI know one of them,” said Helen. “I wish you’d go down and reassure her. She’s on her way to the bullfights, and she turned into jelly when they searched the train.”
    â€œThey were absolutely correct to search the train,” the printer answered. “They destroyed some snapshots we were taking, too. Last spring, they said, the Fascists caught a lot of photographs of armed civilians, and anyone whose face was clear got his. They’re not taking any chances.”
    â€œBut if you’ve been talking with them—” Helen cried, her face darkening with excitement. “What do they say is happening?”
    â€œThey only said that,” the printer told her. He was a young student, from his look, his earnest clear glance, but the marks about his mouth and his darkened, blunt fingers showed how long he had spent at work; he looked straightforward at Helen now, obviously telling all he knew. “They were ordered to go through