A Chariot of Fire

When the White Mountain express to Boston stopped at Beverly, it slowed op reluctantly, crashed off the baggage, and dashed on with the nervousness of a train that is unmercifully and unpardonably late.
It was a September night, and the channel of home-bound summer travel was clogged and heaving.
A middle-aged man—a plain fellow, who was one of the Beverly passengers—stood for a moment staring at the tracks. The danger-light from the rear of the onrushing train wavered before his eyes, and looked like a splash of blood that was slowly wiped out by the night. It was foggy, and the atmosphere clung like a sponge.
No, he muttered, it's the other way. Batty's the other way.
He turned, facing towards the branch road which carries the great current of North Shore life.
How soon can I get to Gloucester? he demanded of one who brushed against him heavily. He who answered proved to be of the baggage staff, and was at that moment skilfully combining a frown and a whistle behind a towering truck; from this two trunks and a dress-suit case threatened to tumble on a bull-terrier leashed to something invisible, and yelping in the darkness behind.
Lord! This makes 'leven dogs, cats to burn, twenty-one baby-carriages, and a guinea-pig travellin' over this blamed road since yesterday—What's that? Gloucester? —6.45 to-morrow morning.
Oh, but look here! cried the plain passenger, that won't do. I have got to get to Gloucester to-night .
So's this bull-terrier, groaned the baggage-handler. He got switched off without his folks—and I've got a pet lamb in the baggage-room bleatin' at the corporation since dinner-time. Some galoot forgot the crittur. There's a lost parrot settin' alongside that swears in several foreign languages. I wish to Moses I could!