enty minits ago," said the man. "Forty minits late down to
Moocastle. Git here quatter to three, ef nothin' more happens."

"But what has happened? What's wrong with the beastly old road, anyhow?"

"Freight car skipped the track," said the man, "up to Charlo. Everythin'
hung up an' kinder goin' slow till they git the line clear. Dunno
nothin' more."

With this conclusive statement the agent seemed to disclaim all
responsibility for the future of impatient travelers, and dropped his
mind back into the magazine again. Hemenway lit another cigar and went
into the baggage room to smoke with the expressman. It was nearly three
o'clock when they heard the far-off shriek of the whistle sounding up
from the south; then, after an interval, the puffing of the engine on
the upgrade; then the faint ringing of the rails, the increasing clatter
of the train, and the blazing headlight of the locomotive swept slowly
through the darkness, past the platform. The engineer was leaning on one
arm, with his head out of the cab window, and Hemenway nodded as he
passed and hurried into the ticket office, where the ticktack of a
conversation by telegraph was soon under way. The black porter of the
Pullman car was looking out from the vestibule, and when he saw Hemenway
his sleepy face broadened into a grin reminiscent of many generous tips.

"Howdy, Mr. Hennigray," he cried; "glad to see yo' ag'in, sah! I got yo'
section all right, sah! Lemme take yo' things, sah! Train gwine to stop
hy'eh fo' some time yet, I reckon."

"Well, Charles," said Hemenway, "you take my things and put them in the
car. Careful with that gun now! The Lord only knows how much time this
train's going to lose. I'm going ahead to see the engineer."

Angus McLeod was a grizzle-bearded Scotchman who had run a locomotive on
the Intercolonial ever since the road was cut through the woods from New
Brunswick to Quebec. Every one who traveled often on that line knew him,
and all who knew him well enough to get below his rough crust, liked
him for his big heart.

"Hallo, McLeod," said Hemenway as he came up through the darkness, "is
that you?"

"It's nane else," answered the engineer as he stepped down from his cab
and shook hands warmly. "Hoo are ye, Dud, an' whaur hae ye been
murderin' the innocent beasties noo? Hae ye kilt yer moose yet? Ye've
been chasin' him these mony years."

"Not much murdering," replied Hemenway. "I had a queer trip this
time--away up the Nepisi