ony_," in a heart-rent voice, as he opened the door, banged
it furiously, and strode out into the street.

BOOK II

THE OPEN DOOR

CHAPTER I

He had slept all night in a strained position between a barrel of tallow
candles and a bag of potatoes. In spite of the hardness of the potatoes
on which he lay and the odour of the candles, he lost consciousness for
a part of the night, and when he awoke, bruised and weary, he found the
car stationary. As he listened he could not hear a sound, and crawling
out from between the sacks in the car, he saw the dim light of early
dawn through a crack in the door. Pushing open the sliding door he
discovered that the car had stopped on a siding in an immense
railroad-yard and that he was the only soul in sight. He climbed out
stiffly. On all sides of him ran innumerable lines of gleaming rails.
The signal house up high was alight and the green and yellow and white
signal lamps at the switches shone bright as stars. Further on he could
see the engine-house, where in lines, their cow-catchers at the
threshold, a row of engines waited, sombre, inert horses of iron and
steel, superb in their repose. Fairfax reckoned that it must be nearly
four-thirty, and as he stood, heard a switch click, saw a light change
from green to red, and with a rattle and commotion a train rolled
in--along and away. On the other side of the tracks in front of him were
barrack-like workshops, and over the closed station ran a name in black
letters, but it did not inform Fairfax as to his whereabouts except that
he was at "West Junction." He made his way across the tracks towards the
workshops, every inch of him sore from his cramped ride.

He always thought that on that day he was as mentally unhinged as a
healthy young man can be. Unbalanced by hunger, despair and rage, his
kindly face was drawn and bore the pallor of death. He was dirty and
unshaven, his heavy boot weighed on his foot like lead. Without any
special direction he limped across the tracks and once, as he stopped to
look up and down the rails on which the daylight was beginning to
glimmer, in his eyes was the morbidness of despair. A signalman from his
box could see him over the yards, and Fairfax reflected that if he
lingered he might be arrested, and he limped away.

"Rome, Rome," he muttered under his breath, "thou hast been a tender
nurse to me! Thou hast given to the timid shepherd-boy muscles of iron
and a heart of steel."