it understood, and girls do not go to the station without an excuse!

The Adams Express wagon was drawn close to the track, and the agent was
rushing about with a breathless energy which seemed all out of
proportion to his accomplishments. The telegraph operator was gazing
earnestly out of his open window, and his hands were busily moving
papers from one pigeon-hole to another, and back again. Old Harvey
Reel, who drove the hotel bus, was discussing politics with the man who
kept the restaurant, and the baggage master, superior and supremely
dirty, was checking baggage with his almost unendurably lordly air.

This was one of the four daily rejuvenations that gladdened the heart
of Mount Mark.

A man in a black business suit stood alone on the platform, his hands
in his pockets, his eyes wandering from one to another of the strange
faces about him. His plain white ready-made tie proclaimed his calling.

"It's the new Methodist preacher," volunteered the baggage master,
crossing the platform, ostensibly on business bound, but really to see
"who all" was there. "I know him. He's not a bad sort."

"They say he's got five kids, and most of 'em girls," responded the
Adams Express man. "I've ordered me a dress suit to pay my respects in
when they get here. I want to be on hand early to pick me out a girl."

"Yah," mocked the telegraph operator, bobbing his head through the
window, "you need to. They tell me every girl in Mount Mark has turned
you down a'ready."