As he spoke he gave the hundred and ten pounds of beans a heave out into
the night. Father Roland jumped to his assistance, and David saw his
steamer trunk and his hand-bags follow the beans.

"The snow is soft and deep, an' there won't be any harm done," Father
Roland assured him as he tossed out a 50-pound box of prunes.

David heard sounds now: a man's shout, a fiendish tonguing of dogs, and
above that a steady chorus of yapping which he guessed came from the
foxes. Suddenly a lantern gleamed, then a second and a third, and a
dark, bearded face--a fierce and piratical-looking face--began running
along outside the door. The last box and the last bag went off, and with
a sudden movement the train-man hauled David to the door.

"Jump!" he cried.

The face and the lantern had fallen behind, and it was as black as an
abyss outside. With a mute prayer David launched himself much as he had
seen the bags and boxes sent out. He fell with a thud in a soft blanket
of snow. He looked up in time to see the Little Missioner flying out
like a curious gargoyle through the door; the baggage-man's lantern
waved, the engineer's whistle gave a responding screech, and the train
whirred past. Not until the tail-light of the last coach was receding
like a great red firefly in the gloom did David get up. Father Roland
was on his feet, and down the track came two of the three lanterns on
the run.

It was all unusually weird and strangely interesting to David. He was
breathing deeply. There was a warmth in his body which was new to him.