spare
American--crossed his long legs and lighted a thin black cigar, and the
younger--a spruce young Englishman wearing an eye-glass and a small
mustache--wrapped himself in his rugs, took a clean pocket-handkerchief
from his dressing-case, and opened a large bundle of illustrated
papers--French, German, and English.

For a space the train rocked on. No one attempted to speak, and the
Russian boy continued to stand by the window, pretending to look through
the blurred panes, in reality wondering how he could with least
commotion pass down the carriage to his own vacated place.

At last the man with the long cigar broke the silence in a slow, cool
voice that betrayed his nationality.

"We're well on time, Blake," he remarked, drawing out his watch.

The youth by the window shot an involuntary, fleeting glance at the two
younger men, to see which would answer to the name; and the student of
human nature noted the fact that he understood English.

"Oh, it's a good service!" he acquiesced, the tolerant look--half
sceptical, half humorous--- passing again over his face.

"I don't know! I think we could do with another few kilometres to the
hour." The thin man studied his flat gold watch with the loving interest
of one to whom time is a sacred thing.

At this point the youngest of the three raised his head.

"Marvellous sight you have, McCutcheon! Wish I could see by this light!"

McCutcheon leaned forward, replacing his watch. "What! Can't you see
your picture-books? Let's have the blinkers off!" He rose, his long,
spidery figure stretching up like a grotesque shadow, but as his arm
went out to the nearest of the shrouded lamps he was compelled to draw
back against the seat of the carriage, and an exclamation of surprise
escaped him.

Without warning or apology the Russian boy had turned from the window,
and stepping down the carriage, had tumbled into his former seat,
hunching himself up with his face to the cushions and his back to his
fellow-travellers.

It was a sudden and an uncivil proceeding. The man called Blake smiled;
the Englishman shrugged his shoulders; the American, with a movement of
quiet determination, drew back the lamp hoods.

In the flood of light the carriage lost its air of mystery, and Blake,
who had a fancy for the mysterious, dropped back into his corner and
took out his cigar-case with a little feeling of regret. In traversing
the world's pathways, beaten or wild, he always made a po