caught Bronson's eye an expression came over his face, which, if
Fotheringham had seen, would have saved him a vast amount of trouble.
But the messenger, too busy to notice his visitor, paid him no
attention, and in a moment Bronson was puffing his cigar with a
nonchalant air, that would disarm any suspicions which the messenger
might have entertained, but he had none, as it was a common practice to
send new men over his run, that he might "break them in."

The train had pulled out, and after passing the city limits, was flying
through the suburbs at full speed.

Fotheringham, seated in front of his safe, with his way bills on his
lap, was checking them off as Bronson called off each item of freight in
the car.

The long shriek of the whistle and the jerking of the car caused by the
tightening of the air brake on the wheels, showed the train to be
approaching a station.

"This is Kirkwood," said Fotheringham, "nothing for them to-night."

The train was almost at a standstill, when Bronson, saying "What sort of
a place is it?" threw back the door and peered out into the dark.

As he did so, a man passed swiftly by, and in passing glanced into the
car. As Bronson looked, he saw it was the same man that had bought a
ticket for Kirkwood and had ridden in the smoker.

The train moved on. Bronson shut the door and buttoned his coat.
Fotheringham, still busy on his way bills, was whistling softly to