They walked with it to the far end of the platform and stopped.
“Might rain,” said Weir, changing his mind. “Over there,” he added, after looking around. “Under the overhang.”
They turned back. Awkwardly, with scraping feet and gruntings, they put it down against the station wall under the projecting eave, and then stood looking at it, all a little red from the exertion and stooping.
“Tain’t yours, is it?” said Weir, turning suddenly on the young man who had followed the box to and fro.
“Yes,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“John Breakspeare.”
The station agent bent down and read the card tacked to the top of the box. The name was Aaron Breakspeare.
“I knew him,” he said, now gazing at the young man. “Knew him well, I might say. Everybody around here did. You ain’t his boy?”
“He was my father,” said the young man. “Will it be all right to——?”