Murphy sprang from the engine; the conductor strode with dignity worthy a Pullman official, to the one passenger coach behind the baggage car, and assisted a very young and very sickly man to alight.
Tom Smith, with energy concentrated on this single activity of the twenty-four hours, began hurling mail-bag and boxes about with the abandon that marks the man whom Nature has fitted to his legitimate calling.
Filmer eyed the passenger with disapproving interest; Murphy, after looking at some part of the machinery, lolled up to Jock.
"Is that it?" Filmer nodded toward the stranger, who sat exhaustedly upon a cracker-box, destined for the Black Cat, with his suit-case at his feet.
"It ain't, then," Murphy returned. "It got on the Branch 'stead of the Mountain Special, by mistake. It's a lunger bound for the lakes, and some one gave him a twist as to the track an' we caught 'im. But shure, the rale thing, the parson, when I was after tellin' 'im of the job what was at this end of the game, he up and balked—divil take 'im!—an' said he wasn't goin' to tie for time and eternity, two unknown quantities. What do ye think of that?"
Jock thought hotly of it, and expressed his thought so fervidly that the boy on the cracker-box gave attention.
"Say," Murphy continued, "give it straight, Filmer; does it be after meanin' life or death for Birkdale's girl? What's the almighty hurry, anyway?"
He leered unpleasantly. Jock squared himself, and faced the engineer.
"Come off with that guff!" he drawled. "What hurry there be is my hurry, you blamed idiot! And my reasons are my own, confound you! I've set my mind on having that affair come off to-morrow, gol durn it, and I'm going to have a parson if I have to dangle down to the Junction on that old machine of yours, myself."
A few added words of luridly picturesque intent gave force and colour to this declaration.