"But I have got to get to Gloucester!" answered the White Mountain passenger. "We had an accident. We're late. I ain't much used to travellin'--I supposed they'd wait for us. I tell you I've got to get there!" In his agitation he gripped the arm of the other, who threw the grasp off instinctively. "You'll have to walk, then. You can't get anything now till the newspaper train." "God!" gasped the belated passenger. "I've got a little boy. He's dying." "Sho!" said the ticket-master. "That's too bad. Can you afford a team? You might try the stables. There's one or two around here." The ticket-master locked the doors of the station and walked away, but did not go far. A humane uneasiness disturbed him, and he returned to see if he could be of any use to the afflicted passenger. "I'll show you the way to the nearest," he began, kindly. But the man had gone. In the now dimly lighted town square he was, in fact, zigzagging about alone, with the loping gait of a lame man in a feverish hurry. "There must be hosses," he muttered, "and places. Why, yes. Here's one, first thing." Into the livery-stable he entered so heavily that he seemed to fall in. His cheap straw hat was pushed back from his head; he was flushed, and his eyes were too bright; his hair, which was red and coarse, lay matted on his forehead. "I want a team," he began, on a high, sharp key. "I've got to get to Gloucester. The train's gone." A sleepy groom, who scowled at him, turned on a suspicious heel. "You're drunk. It's fourteen miles. It would cost you more'n you're worth." "I've got a little boy," repeated the lame man. "He's dying." The groom wheeled back. "That so? Why, that's a pity. I'd like to 'commodate you. See? I'm here alone--see? I darsen't go so far without orders. Boss is home and abed." "He got hurt in an accident," pleaded the father. "I come from up to Conway. I went to bury my uncle. They sent me a telegraph about my little boy. I ain't drunk. They sent me the telegraph. I've got to get home." "I'll let you sleep here along of me," suggested the groom, "but I daresn't leave. I'm responsible to the boss. There's other places you might get one. I'll show you. See? I'd try 'em all if I was you." But again the man was gone. By the time he had found another stable his manner had changed; he had become deprecating, servile. He entreated, he trembled; he flung his emergency at the feet of the watchman; he reiterated his phrase: "I've got a little boy, if you please. He's dying. I've got to get to Gloucester--I live in Squam." "I don't like to refuse you," protested the night-watchman, "but two of my horses are lame, and one is plumb used up carrying summer folks. I'm dreadful short. I haven't a team to my name I could put on the road to Gloucester. It's--why, to Squam it's seventeen miles--thirty-four the round trip. It would cost you--" "I'll pay!" cried the lame man; "I'll pay. I ain't beggin'."