got?"

"Peach poy, apricot poy, apple poy, and mince poy."

"Is that all?"

"And, shure, what more do you want?"

I have always suspected something mysterious about mince pies. At home,
I eat mince pies. I also trust my friends' cooks. Outside, I pass. I
think that mince pies and sausages should be made at home.

"I like a little variety," I said to the Irishman, "give me a small
slice of apple pie, one of apricot pie, and another of peach pie."

The Irishman stared at me.

"What's the matter with the mince poy?" he seemed to say.

I could see from his eye that he resented the insult offered to his
mince pies.

I ate my pies and returned on the platform. I was told that the train
was two hours behind time, and I should be too late to catch the last
Brushville train at the next change.

I walked and smoked.

The three pies began to get acquainted with each other.

* * * * *

_Brushville, March 12._

Oh, those pies!

At the last change yesterday, I arrived too late. The last Brushville
train was gone.

The pies were there.

A fortune I would have given for a dinner and a bed, which now seemed
more problematic than ever.

I went to the station-master.

"Can I have a special train to take me to Brushville to-night?"

"A hundred dollars."

"How much for a locomotive alone?"

"Sixty dollars."

"Have you a freight train going to Brushville?"

"What will you do with it?"

"Board it."

"Board it! I can't stop the train."

"I'll take my chance."

"Your life is insured?"

"Yes; for a great deal more than it is worth."

"Very well," he said, "I'll let you do it for five dollars."

[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO BRUSHVILLE.]

And he looked as if he was going to enjoy the fun. The freight train
arrived, slackened speed, and I boarded, with my portmanteau and my
umbrella, a car loaded with timber. I placed my handbag on the
timber--you know, the one I had when traveling in "the neighborhood of
Chicago"--sat on it, opened my umbrella, and waved a "tata" to the
station-master.

It was raining fast, and I had a journey of some thirty miles to make at
the rate of about twelve miles an hour.

Oh, those pies! They now seemed to have resolved to fight it out.
_Sacrebleu! De bleu! de bleu!_

A few miles from Brushville I had to get out, or rather, get down, and
take a ticket for Brushville on board a local train.

Benumbed with cold, wet through, and famishe