he 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 travellers, 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 up-grade; 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 as he
passed he nodded and waved his hand to Hemenway. The conductor also
nodded and hurried into the ticket-office, where the tick-tack 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 alright, 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. Everyone who travelled 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 killt 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 Nepissiguit, with old McDonald. You know him, don't
you?"

"Fine do I ken Rob McDonald, an' a guid mon he is. Hoo was