Another? Before he had thought the word again, his quick ear caught its shriek as it approached from the opening, which it seemed to Cadmus that he should never reach alive. He caught again the booming crash of its advent into the mountain's heart. Cadmus caught his breath, sick with nervousness and fear. This time the space between the rail and the rock seemed so dreadfully narrow--and it was, in truth, some inches less than a few yards back. Nevertheless, Cadmus staggered into it, stood as straight against the side wall as he could, his face toward it, and with his head thrown a little upward. His enemy sped toward him, and seemed to scorch and deafen and grind the boy with its whirling wheels as it shot behind his very shoulders. Cadmus's hat was blown off, and no more heard of, as no locomotive capped with a small brown chip astonished the natives on its way to Oswego. But a slight accident like the flying away of one's hat can be an important matter under such conditions. The sudden whizz of wind about him and the snap of his hat guard gave a start to the terrified boy. He lost his balance, and half crouched, half fell, not between those unseen wheels rolling so near, but sidelong. The red flash of the lanterns on the platform of the last car fell on his bent figure as the train thundered away into the darkness beyond. Cadmus found his feet, doubtful if he were a hearing, breathing, and generally living boy or not. But the smoke rolled past. Gleams of light filtered through it. The worst was over, and Cadmus was safe--well scratched and bruised, and as close to being "frightened to death" as most persons ever have been. A few moments later a hatless, grimy, almost unrecognizable boy emerged from the Junction end of the tunnel, and picked his way toward the dépôt, trembling, but quite bold enough to decline sharply to answer any questions that the interested switch-tenders and signal-men fired about his ears. There was a pump handy; so Cadmus contrived to make a very imperfect toilet before that 10.15 express came along, which spun him, bare-headed, back over the road he had come, toward Lafayette and his father. Mr. and Mrs. Petry were sitting in the old dining-room at Grandfather Fish's, still in a state of mystification about the telegram they had received from the Doctor. "What'll Lawyer Gable an' that man think of me?" exclaimed Mr. Petry. "Here 'tis half an hour after time, and Cadmus not here yet. How was he to come up with any letter, I'd like to know? He couldn't get aboard a train that didn't stop at Wicketiquok." At which moment the door opened, and Cadmus strode manfully into the room. "Good-afternoon, grandpa," he exclaimed, quite composedly, holding out a very dirty white envelope toward the other members of the group. "Hello, father! here's that letter Dr. Flaxman telegraphed you about, and--and I walked through the tunnel to get the express. I suppose I'll have to be whipped."