The news that the "Big Boss" might be on board had spread to the passenger train, and crowds flocked from the sleepers, curious to get a glimpse of the railroad magnate who had made such a stir in the land. His power was so great that common talk credited him with being stronger than Congress and the courts combined. The newspapers recorded all his doings as it did the President's, but with this difference, that while everybody knew all about the Man in the White House, few if any seemed to know anything real about the railroad man's private life. In the popular estimation he was a veritable Sphinx. At his country home in the East he had bought up the land for five miles around--even the highways--to keep intruders out. Here now was an unexpected chance, and the travelers crowded up to get a look at him. But they saw no luxurious private car with frock-coated officials and liveried servants. An every-day engine with three express cars in tow stood upon the track, and baggagemen in blue overalls yelled for hand-trucks, and hustled out boxes and crates consigned to "The agent at Shawnee." Yet it was not an every-day train nor an ordinary crew; for all of them, conductor, brakemen, engineer and fireman, wore holly in their caps and broad grins on their faces. The locomotive flew two white flags with the words "Merry Christmas" in red letters, and across the cars a strip of canvas was strung their whole length, with the legend "The Christmas Train" in capitals a foot long. Even in the gloom of the snowshed it shone out, plain to read. Tom in his office rubbed his eyes for another and better look when the conductor of the Special, pushing his way through the wondering crowds, flung open the door. "Here's yer docyments," he said, slapping down a paper, "and the orders are that ye're to see they gets 'em." Tom Crogan took up the paper as if dazed, and looked at the entries without in the least understanding what it all meant. He did not see the jam of railroad men and passengers who had crowded into the office on the heels of the conductor until they filled it to the doors. Neither did he notice that his wife had come with them and was standing beside him looking as mystified as he. Mechanically he read out the items in the way-bill, while the conductor checked them off with many a wink at the crowd. What nightmare was this? Had some delirious Santa Claus invaded the office of the Union Pacific Railroad, and turned it into a toy shop and dry-goods bazar combined, with a shake of his reindeer bells? Or was it a huge, wretched, misbegotten joke? Surely stranger bill of lading never went over the line, or over any railroad line before. This was what he read: "Crate of fat turkeys, one for every family on the station (their names followed). "One ditto of red apples. "One ditto of oranges, to be similarly apportioned. "For Tom Crogan, one meerschaum pipe.