that; life had not been entirely pleasant for her for some years.

"I need a taxicab, if there is one."

"There is. I run it after the train gets in for them as ain't met. You're
not goin' to the college?" He pronounced it "collitch."

Janet Bagley shook her head and took a piece of paper from her bag. "Mr.
Charles Maxwell, Rural Route Fifty-three, Martin's Hill Road," she read.
Her daughter began to whimper.

The station-master frowned. "Hum," he said, "that's the Herm--er, d'you
know him?"

Mrs. Bagley said: "I've never met him. What kind of a man is he?"

That was the sort of question the station-master appreciated. His job was
neither demanding nor exciting; an opportunity to talk was worth having.
He said cheerfully, "Why, I don't rightly know, ma'am. Nobody's ever seen
him."

"Nobody?"

"Nope. Nobody. Does everything by mail."

"My goodness, what's the matter with him?"

"Don't rightly know, ma'am. Story is he was once a professor and got in
some kind of big explosion. Burned the hide off'n his face and scarred up
his hands something turrible, so he don't want to show himself. Rented