When Ted's watch read ten past seven, he left the pickup and went to stand in the shadows on the waiting platform. The drivers of other cars joined him, and here and there a little group of men engaged in conversation. Then the train's whistle announced its approach and every eye turned down the tracks. Ordinarily, the train pulled a combined baggage and mail car and one coach, but on this eventful night a second coach had been resurrected from somewhere and every window gleamed. The train hissed to a halt and hunters started piling off. Without exception, they were dressed in hunting gear; red coats, red caps and whatever they fancied in the way of trousers and footwear. They lugged everything from suitcases to rucksacks and, invariably, either strapped to the luggage or carried in a free hand, rifles were in evidence. The men waiting on the platform went forward to greet hunters they knew and bundled them off to cars. Jimmy Deeks, Lorton's only taxi driver, called his "Taxi!" just once and was stampeded by a dozen hunters who wanted to go to a hotel or motel. There was some little argument and, after promising to return for the rest, Jimmy went off with as many hunters as his cab would hold. The arriving crowd thinned rapidly and Ted looked with some bewilderment on those who were left. He'd never seen John Wilson and hadn't the faintest idea as to the sort of man he must look for. Certainly he'd be alone, and the only hunters left were in groups of three or more. Then Dan Taylor, the station agent, passed and saw Ted. "Hi, Ted." "Hi, Dan." "Waitin' for somebody?" "Yup." "Well if he ain't on this train, he's sure walkin'!" The station agent guffawed at his own not very subtle humor and moved on. A second later, a man detached himself from one of the groups and approached Ted. He was not tall, even in hunting boots he lacked five and a half inches of Ted's six feet. He wore a red-plaid jacket, a red-checked cap and black wool trousers that tucked into his boots. In his right hand was a leather suitcase and in his left he carried a cased rifle. Despite the gray hair that escaped from beneath his cap, he walked with a light and firm tread and humor glinted in his eyes. He asked, "Are you Ted Harkness?" "That's right." The man put his suitcase down and thrust out his right hand. "I'm John Wilson." Ted shook the proffered hand. "I--I thought you'd be different." "Don't let my grotesque appearance frighten you. I'm harmless." Ted blurted out, "You said in your letter that you're a doddering _old_ man." "Ten years older than Methuselah." John Wilson laughed and the sound was good to hear. "I'm glad to know you, Ted." "And I you. Shall we get out to the house?" "If you don't mind, I'd like to grab a bite to eat. The dining car on the Limited was crowded and I couldn't get in." "The cafes will be crowded and we'll have to wait. I'll fix you something, if you want to come along now." "Fine!"