The local jerked and stopped and then jerked into motion again. This operation was repeated a number of times, but Bob slept heavily through it all, for his body was near exhaustion. It was well after dawn when he finally moved and he groaned softly as the blood started flowing once more through his cramped legs. Bob sat up and massaged his legs and arms. It was quite clear out now and the local was rocking along a desolate stretch of Florida east coast. Somewhere along the line the other passengers had left the train and Bob was now the only occupant of the coach. He got up and walked to the water cooler. Fortunately there was an ample supply of water and after bathing his face and hands with the cool liquid, he felt much refreshed though ravenously hungry. Up ahead the engineer blasted his whistle for a highway crossing and Bob felt the air brakes go on, the old wooden coach jumping around in protest as the speed dropped sharply. They clacked over switches and Bob, looking ahead, could see a weather beaten station, on the other side of which another train was standing. This, he concluded, must be the junction. The conductor, coming back from the baggage car, gave Bob his train check. “Don’t have many passengers going to Atalissa,” he said. “Them that wants to get there usually go by car or boat.” The local rocked to a creaking halt and Bob, his Gladstone in hand, stepped down on the cinder platform. The accommodation which was to take him the rest of the way to Atalissa was on the other side of the station. The engine, an antiquated little affair, looked about like a teakettle, but the two freight cars and the passenger car on the back end were standard size equipment. The conductor, in faded blue overalls, looked at Bob’s ticket. “Guess you’re the only passenger,” he said. “Well, we might as well be going.” “How about breakfast?” asked Bob. “Hungry?” asked the conductor. “Just about starved,” confessed Bob. “Well, we stop at Ainsworth about ten miles down the line. There’s a little place there where you can get a bite to eat.” There appeared to be nothing else to do so Bob climbed up the steps of the old wooden coach and put his Gladstone in the first seat at the rear. The engineer whistled a wheezy “high ball” and the conductor swung up on the back end as the accommodation started its daily run for the seacoast. The air in the coach was stuffy and Bob found it pleasanter on the rear platform, watching the track wind away in the distance and they swung around curves and chugged their way up steep grades. It seemed incredible that in such a peaceful appearing country there must be located the headquarters for a relentless band of smugglers. The second stop of the accommodation that morning was at Ainsworth and as the train slowed down for the station, the conductor came back and spoke to Bob.