At the last change yesterday, I arrived too late. The last Brushville train was gone. The pies were there. A fortune I would have given for a dinner and a bed, which now seemed more problematic than ever. I went to the station-master. "Can I have a special train to take me to Brushville to-night?" "A hundred dollars." "How much for a locomotive alone?" "Sixty dollars." "Have you a freight train going to Brushville?" "What will you do with it?" "Board it." "Board it! I can't stop the train." "I'll take my chance." "Your life is insured?" "Yes; for a great deal more than it is worth." "Very well," he said, "I'll let you do it for five dollars." [Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO BRUSHVILLE.] And he looked as if he was going to enjoy the fun. The freight train arrived, slackened speed, and I boarded, with my portmanteau and my umbrella, a car loaded with timber. I placed my handbag on the timber--you know, the one I had when traveling in "the neighborhood of Chicago"--sat on it, opened my umbrella, and waved a "tata" to the station-master. It was raining fast, and I had a journey of some thirty miles to make at the rate of about twelve miles an hour. Oh, those pies! They now seemed to have resolved to fight it out. _Sacrebleu! De bleu! de bleu!_ A few miles from Brushville I had to get out, or rather, get down, and take a ticket for Brushville on board a local train. Benumbed with cold, wet through, and famished, I arrived here at ten o'clock last night. The peach pie, the apple pie, and the apricot pie had settled their differences and become on friendly and accommodating terms. I was able, on arriving at the hotel, to enjoy some light refreshments, which I only obtained, at that time of night, thanks to the manager, whom I had the pleasure of knowing personally. At eleven o'clock I went to bed, or, to use a more proper expression for my Philadelphia readers, I retired. I had been "retiring" for about half an hour, when I heard a knock at the door. "Who's there?" I grumbled from under the bedclothes. "A representative of the Brushville _Express_." "Oh," said I, "I am very sorry--but I'm asleep." "Please let me in; I won't detain you very long." "I guess you won't. Now, please do not insist. I am tired, upset, ill, and I want rest. Come to-morrow morning." "No, I can't do that," answered the voice behind the door; "my paper appears in the morning, and I want to put in something about you." "Now, do go away," I pleaded, "there's a good fellow." "I must see you," insisted the voice. "You go!" I cried, "you go----" without mentioning any place. For a couple of minutes there was silence, and I thought the interviewer was gone. The illusion was sweet, but short. There was another knock, followed by a "I really must see you to-night." Seeing that there would be no peace until I had let the reporter in, I unbolted the door, and jumped back into my--you know. [Illustration: THE INTERVIEWER.] It was pitch dark.