“This your baggage?” and the man picked up Tommy’s little trunk and threw it on his shoulder.
“Yes, sir; that’s mine.”
“All right. You’ve got to take the stage over here; it’s a six-mile drive. Come on.” And the man led the way down a steep flight of stone steps, along a tunnel which ran under the tracks, and up another flight of steps on the other side. “Here, Bill,” he called to a man who, whip in hand, was standing on the platform; “here’s a passenger fer you.”
The man with the whip hurried toward them.
“Is your name Thomas Remington?” he asked the boy.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, then. They told me t’ look out fer you. Here’s th’ stage, out here.”
He led the way through the waiting-room to the street beyond, where the stage stood, the horses hitched to a convenient lamp-post. Tommy clambered sleepily aboard.
“Where’s your trunk-check?” asked the driver.
Tommy fumbled in his pocket and finally produced it.