Near the northern limits of the city the signs of life were more in
evidence. At the Canadian Pacific Railway station an engine, hoary
with frozen steam, puffed contentedly as if conscious of sufficient
strength for the duty that lay before it, waiting to hook on to
Number Two, nine hours late, and whirl it eastward in full contempt
of frost and snow bank and blizzard.

Inside the station a railway porter or two drowsed on the benches.
Behind the wicket where the telegraph instruments kept up an incessant
clicking, the agent and his assistant sat alert, coming forward now
and then to answer, with the unwearying courtesy which is part of
their equipment and of their training, the oft repeated question
from impatient and sleepy travellers, "How is she now?" "An hour,"
"half an hour," finally "fifteen minutes," then "any time now."
At which cheering report the uninitiated brightened up and passed
out to listen for the rumble of the approaching train. The more
experienced, however, settled down for another half hour's sleep.

It was a wearisome business, and to none more wearisome than to
Interpreter Elex Murchuk, part of whose duty it is to be in
attendance on the arrival of all incoming trains in case that some
pilgrim from Central and Southern Europe might be in need of
direction. For Murchuk, a little borderland Russian, boasts the
gift of tongues to an extraordinary degree. Russian, in which he
was born, and French, and German, and Italian, of course, he knows,
but Polish, Ruthenian, and all varieties of Ukranian speech are
alike known to him.

"I spik all European language good, jus' same Angleesh,"
was his testimony in regard to himself.