“There!” exclaimed the boy, “you hear that? That means the mail bag; and I’ve got to go pick it up; like ’nough ’taint got mor’n one letter anyhow. Hullo! There go two more toots; reckon they’re a-goin’ ter set down a visitor this trip and I’ll be called upon ter tote their ‘Saratogie’ up ter the ‘Summer Hotel’--meanin’ old Grump Wheeler’s attic chamber,” he added with a comical grin as he scudded across the road. When the mail bag was tossed off he picked it up with an educated toe, deftly landed it upon his wagon, then squatted upon it to await further developments. After depositing an immense valise upon the platform, the conductor lifted down a cripple child of about seven or eight years of age, and looked helplessly around for a place to seat her. A delicate looking woman, evidently her mother, quickly followed and placed beneath the child’s arms the crutches she carried for her. “It is strange that Ruth isn’t here to meet us,” said she. “Do you know of anyone who can take us up to my sister’s house?” “Can’t say as I do,” answered the conductor. “Wish I could stop and help you out, but I can’t,” and he waved his hand to the engineer and sprang aboard his train. The woman stood looking helplessly about and the child thumped across the platform on her crutches, as though the motion was a relief from standing. Catching sight of the boy, the woman walked quickly over to him and asked: “Is there a wagon of any kind that I can get to take us where we want to go?” “That depends on where you’re a-goin’,” was the laconic reply. “To Mrs. Caleb Parker’s; she is my sister. I wrote to her to expect us by this train, but I’m afraid she did not receive the letter, for she would have sent to meet us if she had.” “When did you send the letter and where did you send it from?” asked the boy. “I sent it yesterday morning from Boston.” “Then it’s right snug in this very bag I’m sittin’ on this minit, fur there aint been no mail sense this time yistiddy.” “Dear me! dear me! What am I to do? Is it far to Mrs. Parker’s?” “Nigh ’bout a mile, I reckon.” “Is there _anybody_ you can get to carry us over?” “Don’t know nobody, less it’s Squire Davis, an’ his house is on a spell beyond Mrs. Parker’s. Most of the men folks is out shuckin’ their corn, like Pop Bates up yonder. He’s the station agent. See him?” “Couldn’t he help us?” The boy laughed: “Mebby he could if yer could make him understand what yer wanted, but he’s as deef as that post yonder.” He pointed to the post-rail fence across the road, and then, as though the action had suggested something, he hopped up, saying: “Say, I’ll tell yer what yer can do, if yer will. Like as not yer’ll be scared ter; but yer needn’t, fer Lady’s as steady as a rock and wouldn’t harm nothin’. She often pulls me all round the lot, but old Wheeler, the man what she belongs to, don’t know it; he’d caterpillar, sure, if he did.”