It is some years since I was station-master, telegraph-operator, baggage-agent and ticket seller at a little village near some valuable oil wells.
The station-house was a little distance from the unpretentious thoroughfare that had grown up in a day, and my duties were so arduous that I had scarcely leisure for a weekly flitting to a certain mansion on the hill where dwelt Ellen Morris, my promised wife. In fact, it was with the hope of lessening the distance between us that I had under taken these quadruple duties.
The day was gloomy, and towards the afternoon ominous rolls of thunder portended a storm.
Colonel Holloway, the well-known treasurer of the oil company, had been in the village several days. About one o'clock he came hurriedly into the office with a package, which he laid upon my desk, saying:
"Take care of that, Bowen, till to-morrow. I am going up the road."
The commission was not an unusual one, and my safe was one of Marvin's best. I counted the money, which footed up into the thousands, placed it in the official envelope, affixed the seals, and deposited it in the safe. As I turned away from the lock, a voice at the door said:
"Say, mister, can you tell me the way to the post office?"
A sort of shock went through me at the unexpected presence that seemed to have dropped down from nowhere, and I replied irritably:
"You could not miss it if you tried. Keep straight ahead."