Once a minute the foghorn blew and once a minute Galusha Bangs jumped as
if he were hearing it for the first time.

The signboard had said "1 MILE." One hundred miles, one thousand miles;
that was what it should have said to be truthful. Galusha plodded on and
on, stopping to put down the suitcase, then lifting it and pounding on
again. He had had no luncheon; he had had no dinner. He was weak from
illness. He was wet and chilled. And--yes, it was beginning to rain.

He put down the suitcase once more.

"Oh, my soul!" he exclaimed, and not far away, close at hand, the word
"soul" was repeated.

"Oh, dear!" cried Galusha, startled.

"Dear!" repeated the echo, for it was an echo.

Galusha, brandishing the tiny flashlight, moved toward the sound.
Something bulky, huge, loomed in the blackness, a building. The
flashlight's circle, growing dimmer now for the battery was almost
exhausted, disclosed steps and a broad piazza. Mr. Bangs climbed the
steps, crossed the piazza, the boards of which creaked beneath him.
There were doors, but they were shut tight; there were windows, but they
were shuttered. Down the length of the long piazza tramped Galusha, his
heart sinking. Every window was shuttered, every door was boarded up.
Evidently this place, whatever it was, was closed. It was uninhabited.

He came back to the front door again. Over it was a sign, he had not
looked as high before. Now he raised the dimming flashlight and read: