"Evenin'," replied the man. "Shirt? Well…. Shirt? Don't think I've ever seen you before. D'you live around this a-way, young man?"
"No, I'm just going through to Chattanooga."
"Mary," called the man, "bring that light." A woman in the back room mumbled in response. Tom dreaded the light. In the dusk of the store he could hide his appearance, but with the lamp they would see how disheveled and dirty he was. And, if they had heard any rumors of what had happened during the day, they would suspect him instantly. He looked around at the door and picked his course between the barrels and boxes which lay strewn about the floor.
The woman entered with the light. "Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, looking at Tom. He was, indeed, a strange looking specimen. His face was streaked with black, for his attempts at rubbing himself clean with his handkerchief had been unevenly distributed. His black eyelids, as he blinked in the light, made him grotesque. "What's happened to you?" demanded the woman.
"I've been fighting a fire," answered Tom. He was ready to jump for the door.
"A fire! Where?"
That was encouraging. "Down south of Ringgold," Tom replied. "The bridge caught on fire from a locomotive."
"Y' don't say so!" exclaimed the man. "Y' don't say so!"
"Jeb!" screeched the woman.
"Yes'm," came the response from the back room. A small boy straggled into the store.