CHAPTER VI
REACHING the depot in the edge of the town where there were only three or four cottages, a hotel of the lowest class, and a negro dive masquerading as a restaurant, at which fried spring chicken, hot biscuits, and a cup of coffee were advertised on a crude placard for twenty-five cents, he met few signs of wakefulness. At a switch near a water-tank with a dripping spout a watchman stood with a dingy lantern. Walton moved over to him.
“South-bound freight on time?” he asked.
The man looked at him indifferently. “I heard her blow at the crossing,” he answered. “There! can't you hear her rumble?”
“Who's the conductor?”
“Jack Thomas, if he didn't lay over at Red Hill to spend Sunday with his folks.”
“I want to speak to him. Where will his cab stop?” The man had filled his short pipe, and he took the globe off his lantern to light it. “The engine will water here at the tank,” he said, gruffly. “The cab will stop down near the tool-house on account of the length of the train—a lot of empty fruit-cars going South.”
“All right; thank you.” Walton moved away, and leaned against a stack of cross-ties near the tool-house. He could now quite clearly hear the rumble of the coming train. There was a wide stretch of old cotton and corn fields, now barren and out of use, between him and the train, and across them presently shot the wavering gleam of the engine's headlight. On it came, growing larger and steadier till it had passed him, and with the harsh creaking of brakes on massive, groaning wheels the locomotive came to a stop. The side door of the caboose was open. A man holding a lantern lightly swung himself to the ground, and peered up at a brake-man on the roof of the car.