The stranger was expected on the afternoon train, and Tate had the guest room of the Black Cat in readiness.
Jock had lazed about the Station since noon. The wedding preparations bored him, and the train's delay angered him.
"See here!" he exploded to Tom Smith, the agent, "ain't it stretching a point too far when that gol-durned train gives herself four hours' lee-way?"
Tom spat with dignity, and remarked casually:
"Long as she ain't likely to meet any train going down, seems to me there ain't any use to git warmer than is necessary."
"If she keeps on," drawled Jock, "she'll have a head-on collision with herself some day. Is that the dying shriek of the blasted hussy?"
Tom stopped the imminent expectoration.
"It be," he announced, and went out on the track to welcome the guest.
"She do look," he contemplatively remarked, "like she had an all-fired jag on."
The train came in sight, swaying unsteadily on its rickety tracks. Puffing, panting and hissing, it reached the platform and stopped jerkily.