"But I have got to get to Gloucester!" answered the White Mountain passenger. "We had an accident. We're late. I ain't much used to travellin'—I supposed they'd wait for us. I tell you I've got to get there!"
In his agitation he gripped the arm of the other, who threw the grasp off instinctively.
"You'll have to walk, then. You can't get anything now till the newspaper train."
"God!" gasped the belated passenger. "I've got a little boy. He's dying."
"Sho!" said the ticket-master. "That's too bad. Can you afford a team? You might try the stables. There's one or two around here."
The ticket-master locked the doors of the station and walked away, but did not go far. A humane uneasiness disturbed him, and he returned to see if he could be of any use to the afflicted passenger.
"I'll show you the way to the nearest," he began, kindly.
But the man had gone.
In the now dimly lighted town square he was, in fact, zigzagging about alone, with the loping gait of a lame man in a feverish hurry.
"There must be hosses," he muttered, "and places. Why, yes. Here's one, first thing."