ILLUSTRATIONS
[ "I've Got to Get to Gloucester, Sir!" . . . Frontispiece ]
[ The Flowers in the Front Yard were Knee-Deep in Snow ]
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.