Needless to say it was the train, not the widow Hallett, that had whistled. The depot master rose from his chair. A yellow dog, his property, scrambled from beneath it, and rushing out of the door and to the farther end of the platform, barked furiously. Cephas Baker, who lives across the road from the depot, slouched down to his front gate. His wife opened the door of her kitchen and stood there, her wet arms wrapped in her apron. The five Baker children tore round the corner of the house, over the back fence, and lined up, whooping joyously, on the platform. A cloud of white smoke billowed above the clump of cedars at the bend of the track. Then the locomotive rounded the curve and bore down upon the station. “Stand still, I tell you!” shouted Gabe, addressing the horse. Dan'l Webster opened one eye, closed it and relapsed into slumber. The train, a combination baggage car and smoker, two freight cars and a passenger coach, rolled ponderously alongside the platform. From the open door of the baggage car were tossed the mail sack and two express packages. The conductor stepped from the passenger coach. Following him came briskly a short, thickset man with a reddish-gray beard and grayish-red hair. “Goin' down to the village, Mister?” inquired Mr. Lumley. “Carriage right here.” The stranger inspected the driver of the depot wagon, inspected him deliberately from top to toe. Then he said: “Down to the village? Why, yes, I wouldn't wonder. Say! you're a Lumley, ain't you?” “Why! why--yes, I be! How'd you know that? Ain't ever seen you afore, have I?” “Guess not,” with a quiet chuckle. “I've never seen you, either, but I've seen your nose. I'd know a Lumley nose if I run across it in China.” The possessor of the “Lumley nose” rubbed that organ in a bewildered fashion. Recovering in a measure he laughed, rather half-heartedly, and begged to know if the trunk, then being unloaded from the baggage car, belonged to his prospective passenger. As the answer was an affirmative nod, he secured the trunk check and departed, still rubbing his nose. When he returned, with the trunk on the truck, he found the stranger, with his hands in his pockets, standing before Dan'l Webster and gazing at that animal with an expression of acute interest. “Is this your--horse?” demanded the newcomer, pausing before the final word of his question. “It's so cal'lated to be,” replied Gabe, with dignity. “Hum! Does he work nights?” “Work nights? No, course he don't!” “Oh, all right! Then you can wake him up with a clear conscience. I didn't know but he needed the sleep. What's his record?” “Record?” “Yup; his trottin' record. Anybody can see he's built for speed, narrow in the beam and sharp fore and aft. Shall I get aboard the barouche?”