and the others were Jim Young, driver of the "depot wagon," and Doctor
Holliday, the South Harniss "homeopath," who had been up to a Boston
hospital with a patient and was returning home. Jim was whistling
"Silver Bells," a tune much in vogue the previous summer, and Doctor
Holliday was puffing at a cigar and knocking his feet together to keep
them warm while waiting to get into the depot wagon. These were the only
people in sight and they were paying no attention whatever to the lonely
figure at the other end of the platform.

The boy looked about him. The station, with its sickly yellow gleam
of kerosene lamp behind its dingy windowpane, was apparently the only
inhabited spot in a barren wilderness. At the edge of the platform
civilization seemed to end and beyond was nothing but a black earth
and a black sky, tossing trees and howling wind, and cold--raw, damp,
penetrating cold. Compared with this even the stuffy plush seats and
smelly warmth of the car he had just left appeared temptingly homelike
and luxurious. All the way down from the city he had sneered inwardly at
a one-horse railroad which ran no Pullmans on its Cape branch in winter
time. Now he forgot his longing for mahogany veneer and individual
chairs and would gladly have boarded a freight car, provided there were
in it a lamp and a stove.

The light in the station was extinguished and the agent came out with
a jingling bunch of keys and locked the door. "Good-night, Jim,"
he shouted, and walked off into the blackness. Jim responded with a
"good-night" of his own and climbed aboard the wagon, into the dark
interior of which the doctor had preceded him. The boy at the other end
of the platform began to be really alarmed. It looked as if all living
things were abandoning him and he was to be left marooned, to starve or
freeze, provided he was not blown away first.