'She’ll be thirsty when she gets here,' he reasoned; and then, half apologetically, he glanced down at a big, loose bunch of summer goldenrod, supported by the other hand. Standing high on his toes, he propped it very jauntily over a time-worn beam just opposite the door. 'To look nice when she comes in,' he whispered; and then he cast round a final look, sighed a tired sigh of satisfaction—and went out and closed the door.
He wandered about restlessly that afternoon, and finally, with a queer, light feeling in his head, that he associated dimly with the long walk on the hill road the day before, he turned out of the yard and struck off across the street in the direction of the railroad station. He wanted to inquire about trains and the station was near. Besides, he knew the station-master, and he would tell him just what he wanted to know.
To be sure! The station-master was both alert and intelligent.
'A pony from New York?' he echoed. 'You’re expecting a pony from New York? Well, now I hope you aren’t going to be disappointed about it! You say it was to leave New York to-day? Well, there’s a New York-Boston train that gets in here at half-past six. That’s the last one there is. So if there’s any pony coming, she’ll be on that train, won’t she? Yes, if she’s coming at all, she’ll be on that train.'
'Half-past six? What time is it—now?' questioned Crosby.
'It’s just half-past four. Now, you don’t want to hang round here for two hours. No, you run home and make yourself easy. I pass your place on my way home to supper, and if you’re outside I’ll let you know whether there’s anything for you. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high.'
Crosby looked up gratefully. He had not even heard the last sentence. He was already making his way out of the station and back home again, wondering just how he could spend all that time.
Two hours later, his father came swinging up the walk. Crosby, sitting on the grass close to the sidewalk, hardly saw him. He thought he saw some one else—away down the walk—moving slowly towards him.
'Hullo, Crosby,' began his father cheerfully. 'What you doing? Looking at the view?'
Crosby smiled faintly, but his eyes were straining away down the walk.