“Lucky” Faulkner arrived in Amesville, Ohio, shortly before seven o’clock of a cold morning in the first week of January. He wasn’t known as “Lucky” then, and he certainly didn’t look especially fortunate as he stepped from train to platform and blinked drowsily at this first sight of the strange city that was to be his new home. He had travelled nearly six hours in a day-coach, sleeping fitfully with his head on the arm of the car seat, and his clothes were creased, his hair rumpled and his face tired and pale under its coating of train dust. He wore a good-looking gray ulster and a cap to match, and carried a big valise whose sides bulged tremendously and which bore the inscription “J. C. F.” in neat old English characters. On the platform he set the bag down, took a trunk-check from a pigskin purse and gazed inquiringly about him. The passengers who had left the warmth of the cars had hurried to the restaurant to make the most of the ten minutes allowed them for breakfast, and it was much too early in the day for loiterers. It was a boy of about his own age――which was sixteen――who, stopped in his mad career of dragging a mail-sack along the platform, supplied information. “Huh? Expressman? Sure! Around back. Ask for Gus Tenney.” Gus, a small, crabbed-looking negro, was loading a huge sample-trunk into a ramshackle dray when discovered. “I’ve got a trunk on this train,” said the new arrival. “Will you take it to Miss Teele’s, on Brewer Street, please? And how much will it be?” “Brewer Street? What’s the number, Boss?” “One-twenty-eight.” “Fifty cents, Boss.” “I’ll give you a quarter. Can you get it there by eight?” “I can’t tote no trunk ’way up to Brewer Street for no quarter, Boss. You’ll have to get someone else to do it.” “All right. Is there anyone else around?” “Don’t see anyone, Boss. Reckon I’se the only one here.” “Will you take my trunk up there first and let me ride along with you?” “I got to deliver this to the Commercial House first, Boss.” “How far is that from Brewer Street?” “’Most a mile.” “And Brewer Street’s near the City Hall, isn’t it?” “Well, it ain’t so mighty far.” “And the Commercial House is near the City Hall, too, isn’t it?” “Look here, Boss,” said the negro peevishly, “maybe you-all knows my business better’n I do and maybe you don’t. I got to deliver this trunk right away ’cause the gentleman’s waitin’ for it.” “All right. Don’t let me keep you, then.” “Well, you give me that check an’ I’ll get your trunk up just as soon as I can, Boss.” “No, I’ll wait for someone else. It isn’t worth more than a quarter.” The negro hesitated and muttered as he gave the sample-trunk a final shove. Then: “All right, Boss, I’ll do it. Seems like folks nowadays don’t want anyone to make a livin’, I ’clare to goodness it does!” “Will you get it there by eight?” “I’ll get it there in half an hour, Boss, if that old mare of mine keeps on her feet. It’s powerful mean goin’ today, with so much snow.”