behind him and climbed the rocky bank of the single-line track. There
was not much room between the bank and rails, and he was glad of an
excuse for sitting down. Taking out the stranger's case, he lighted
another of the Turkish cigarettes. They were the only benefit he was
likely to derive from the adventure, and he felt some satisfaction in
making use of them.

In the meantime, the rumble grew into a roar that rolled across the
forest with a rhythmic beat, and a ray of light pierced the gloom up
the track. It was very bright and he knew it was thrown by a
locomotive headlamp. A west-bound freight train was coming and he must
wait until it passed. Freight trains were common objects, but as a
rule when Foster saw one approaching he stopped to watch. The great
size and power of the locomotive appealed to his imagination, and he
liked to think of the reckless courage of the men who drove the steel
road through eight hundred miles of rugged wilderness to Port Arthur,
and then on again through rocks and muskegs to the Western prairie. It
was a daring feat, when one remembered the obstacles and that there was
no traffic to be developed on the way.

The beam of light became a cone of dazzling radiance; the rocks
throbbed, and the gnarled pines shook as the roar swelled into a
tremendous harmony of many different notes. Then there was sudden
darkness as the locomotive leaped past, and huge box-cars rushed,
lurching and rocking, out of the thick, black smoke. Flying ballast
crashed against the rocks, and though the ground was frozen hard a hail
of small particles rattled among the trees. Then, as the tail-lights
on the caboose sped by, a deep hoot of the whistle came back from about
a quarter of a mile off, and soon afterwards the fading glimmer
vanished round a curve. It seemed to be going slower, and the rumble