unprotesting taxicab stood parked parallel to the curb; beyond it
glowered the end of the station. To the right of the long, rambling
structure he could see the occasional glare of switch engines and
track-walkers' lanterns in the railroad yards.

As he looked, he saw the headlight of the locomotive at the head of the
accommodation split the gloom. Instinctively Spike rose, paid his
check, and stood uncomfortably at the door, buttoning the coat tightly
around his neck.

Of course it was impossible that the accommodation carried a fare for
him; but then duty was duty, and Spike took exceeding pride in the
company for which he worked. The company's slogan of service was part of
Spike's creed. He opened the door, recoiled for a second as the gale
swept angrily against him, then plunged blindly across the street. He
clambered into the seat of his cab, depressed the starter, and
eventually was answered by the reluctant cough of the motor. He raced it
for a while, getting the machinery heated up preparatory to the
possibility of a run.

Then he saw the big doors at the main entrance of the station open and a
few melancholy passengers, brought to town by the accommodation train,
step to the curb, glance about in search of a street-car, and then duck
back into the station. Spike shoved his clutch in and crawled forward
along the curb, leaving the inky shadows of the far end of the station,
and emerging finally into the effulgence of the arc at the corner of
Cypress Street.

Once again the door of the Union Station opened. This time Spike took a
professional interest in the person who stepped uncertainly out into the