The little, stubby train rattled slowly past Hickson Crossing, never, stopping. The engineer did not see the shed. It passed Hawley’s, too, then backed up to it. Here it was necessary to set a freight case down on the platform and the engineer improved the time of waiting by wiping off the glass and the reflector of his headlight. The murky atmosphere prevented the little chimney from drawing and the interior of the headlight was as black as the fog was white. When the train left Hawley’s it was four hours and two minutes late and still gaining—in lateness.
Within the single passenger car was a scene like unto the harrowing scenes in starving Russia. All oblivious to this, Hink the conductor sat at the end of the car, his feet sprawled upon the reversed seat in front of him, unconscious of the groans of anguish, sweetly ignorant of threats and sighs, and imprecations, wrapped in the innocent slumber which shielded his senses from the mumbled profanity which filled the air and could not get out because the windows stuck and would not open. He had not awakened at Hickson Crossing because the train forgot to stop there, but at Hawley’s he had awakened, attended to his brief duties and gone to sleep again. He had a way of awakening automatically whenever the train stopped. It seemed as if there might have been a wire connected with him.
Striding back and forth in the uncarpeted aisle, like a restless lion in its cage, was a distinguished looking elderly man wearing gold spectacles. He was the very picture of physical impatience and pent up wrath. This was Mr. A. Pylor Koyn, head of the firm of Koyn & Minter and he was not accustomed to being delayed, much less starved.
“This is without exception positively the most outrageous thing I have ever known,” he said, addressing everybody, apparently. “I’ve been in this crawling dungeon for over five hours. First it was a hot box, then it was a broken coupling, now it’s a fog. Next it will be a flood, I suppose.”
“The more the merrier, boss,” said a young fellow who was playing cards with another young fellow. “It’s all in the game. Anything for adventure; here’s where I trump your ace of diamonds. Right.”
“I’d give fifty bucks for a cheese sandwich,” said his companion, throwing a card on the board.
“I’ve given up all hope of eating,” said Mr. A. Pylor Koyn.
“It’s most exasperating,” said a lady who was seated with a young girl, evidently her daughter.
“Oh, I think it’s fun,” said the girl.
“Dis you call vun?” vociferated a young man with long hair. He was just reaching for a violin case in the rack above him in the persistent hope that the next station would be his. Seventeen times, when the train had stopped with apparently not the slightest reason, had he reached for that coffin-like case, only to leave it where it was, his hopes dashed. But still he hoped.