as though they, worldly wise and watchful, saw the individuality--the
inevitable story--behind the drowsy units who sat or lay or lounged
unguarded beneath them.

In one carriage, the fifth or sixth from the thundering engine, these
lights winked and even laughed one to the other each time the train
lurched over the points, and the dark, shrouding hoods quivered,
allowing a glimpse at the occupant of the compartment.

It was the figure of a boy upon which the twinkling lamp-eyes
flickered--a boy who had as yet scarce passed the barrier of manhood,
for the skin of the face was clean and smooth, and the limbs, seen
vaguely under a rough overcoat, had the freedom and supple grace that
belongs to early youth.

He was sleeping, this solitary traveller--one hand under his head, the
other instinctively guarding something that lay deep and snug in the
pocket of his overcoat. His attitude was relaxed, but not entirely
abandoned to the solace of repose; even in his sleep a something of
self-consciousness seemed to cling to him--a need for caution that lay
near to the surface of his drowsing senses--for once or twice he
started, once or twice his straight, dark eyebrows twitched into a
frown, once or twice his fingers tightened nervously upon their
treasure. He was subconsciously aware that, deserted though the
compartment was, it yet exhaled an alien suggestion, embodied in the
rugs, the coats, the hand-baggage of the card-playing travellers, which
was heaped upon the seat opposite.

But, despite this physical uneasiness, he was dreaming as the train tore
along through the damp, peaceful country--dreaming with that odd