ong the Scottish hills had
strengthened his muscles, but the footing was bad among the stones, and
he labored through them awkwardly with set lips and clenched hands. He
thought of throwing away his heavy coat, but it would take a few
moments to get it off and he must put down the bag, in which there was
the letter he would need. By and by his foot struck something and
lurching forward he lost his balance and came down heavily. The blow
shook him and he was a little slow in getting up until he felt a rail
he put his hand on quiver. Then he scrambled to his feet, but could
not find the bag.

"I hae't," said Pete, who seized his arm and urged him forward.

A deep snorting reached them and a tie he trod on trembled, but as he
ran savagely with labored breath there was an elusive glimmer in the
dark ahead. It grew brighter, an irregularly-shaped white patch
appeared, and making a tense effort while the ballast rolled beneath
his feet, he staggered into the sunshine. Then with a gasp of keen
relief he threw himself upon the snow beside the track.

About a hundred yards away, a giant locomotive toiled up the incline,
hurling out clouds of smoke that streamed far back among the pines.
The road bed shook and the hillside rang with the din of wheels. While
Foster lay panting, the locomotive labored past, and then long, flat
cars, on which men sat upon the load of jarring rails, clanged by. The
black mouth of the shed swallowed them, a cloud of smoke and dusty snow
curled about the opening, and the uproar suddenly sank to a muffled
rumble. This died away and the deep silence of the mountains was
emphasized by the sound of the river.

"We were not much too soon," Foster said with a breathless laugh. "Now
I come to think of it, there's no obvious reason we shouldn't have
stopped on board the train and got our lunch comfortably. I seem to
have a habit of doing unusual and unnecessary things; it's curious how
soon you get into trouble when you indulge a bent like that."

"Yon's a verra true remairk," Pete agreed. "It's a rough and thorny
world, an' if ye will not walk in the cleared paths but gang yere air
gait, ye must struggle with the briars."

"And scramble through snowsheds? You Scots are a philosophical lot.
But do you call poaching sticking to the beaten path?"

"I'm thinking it's as near it as stravaging aboot the Border mosses,
when ye might gang by train."

"A fair hit! But after all, man wears the re