On the platform the boy took firm hold of providence as represented by Steve Earle's big forefinger with one hand and clutched the dog's mane with the other, lest the "suction" all children fear draw him under the grinding wheels. He felt the solid earth under his feet tremble as the great hissing engine rolled between him and the sun, the rod rising and falling on the terrible wheels, the engineer high above in a window. Then the long black baggage car--and in the door a man in a cap, who looked at them with open mouth as if he knew suddenly who they were. As the train stopped, the baggageman jumped to the ground and came running back to Earle, all out of breath. "That your dog?" he demanded. "Sure, he's my dog!" "Where'd you get him?" The wrinkles in the corner of Earle's eye came close together. "Is that any of your affair?" But the baggageman smiled ingratiatingly, like a man who wanted to be friends. "Tell you why I ask," he explained. "I lost that dog on my old run with the Coast Line. Owners sued the road. Road came back on me--said I had no business accepting him without a crate. Had to hunt a new job----" "Oh, come off!" interrupted Earle. "The Coast Line's a hundred miles east." "Can't help it. That's the dog. Watch him. Commere--Commere, Dan. See? Knows me. Ever see the beat of that? I'm sorry, mister--but--if you don't mind--what's your name and address?" Earle had turned, and was looking at the dog under the truck. Then without a word he gave his name. The baggageman wrote it hastily in a notebook. The bell began to ring. The baggageman started away running. "That's what I call white, Mr. Earle!" he called as he swung aboard, waving his hand back at them like a man unaccountably happy and relieved. Earle looked down. Tommy noticed that his mouth was grim. "Come, son," he said. Tommy looked at the dog with fear and with mute apology. In his heart was hatred of that baggageman, and vain, vain regret that he had ever come to Breton Junction to see the train. All the way home the dog trotted under the axle of the buggy. In the days that followed a far less sagacious dog than he would have sensed the anxiety that disturbed the homestead on the hill to which his destiny had led him. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about a buggy turning in from the main road and coming up the long hill toward the house. Frank, basking in the morning sun, kept his eyes on it merely out of curiosity. But as it drew closer he rose slowly to his feet, his ears erect. Unreasoning antipathy to the couple in it raised his hair in a long tuft down his back. He withdrew toward the barn, his head over his shoulder, the sun glistening on his coat of silk. "There he is!" cried Lancaster. "Dan--Dan!" shrilled the woman. The man jumped out of the buggy, lifted her to the ground, and both hurried toward him, smiling like old friends eager to be recognized. The woman extended her hand. "Dan!" she coaxed.