The agent slid a dark red card into the mouth of his office stamp,
jerked down the lever, and swung his head quickly toward the sounder
chattering hysterically behind him. His jaw slackened as he listened,
and he turned his eyes vacantly upon Ford for a moment before he looked
back at the instrument.

"Well, what do you know about that?" he queried, under his breath,
released the ticket from the grip of the stamp, and flipped it into the
drawer beneath the shelf as if it were so much waste paper.

"That's my ticket," Ford reminded him levelly.

"You don't want it now, do you?" The agent grinned at him. "Oh, I forgot
you couldn't read that." He tilted his head back toward the instrument.
"A wire just went through--the court-house at Garbin caught fire in the
basement--something about the furnace, they think--and she's going up in
smoke. Hydrants are froze up so they can't get water on it. That fixes
your looking up the record, Ford."

Ford stared hard at him. "Well, I might hunt up the preacher and ask
him," he said, his tone dropping again to dull discouragement.

The agent chuckled. "From all I hear," he observed rashly, "you've made
that same preacher mighty hard to catch!"

Ford drummed upon the shelf and scowled at the smoke-blackened window,
beyond which the snow was sweeping aslant. Upon his own side of the
ticket window, the agent pared his nails with his pocket-knife and
watched him furtively.