"He's a lean, blighted cuss," Murphy had explained; "what God intended for an engineer, but Nature stepped in and flambasted his constitootion, and so he took to preaching--that not demanding no bodily strength. "He comes pottering round the engine, using the excuse of saving my soul, and I don't let on that I see through him. I give him pints about the machinery; and if I tell him he can ride in the cab with me anywhere, he'd marry a girl, or bury a tramp, if he had to go to hell to do it." So Jock detailed Murphy to decoy the side-tracked gentleman at the Junction up to St. Ange. The stranger was expected on the afternoon train, and Tate had the guest room of the Black Cat in readiness. Jock had lazed about the Station since noon. The wedding preparations bored him, and the train's delay angered him. "See here!" he exploded to Tom Smith, the agent, "ain't it stretching a point too far when that gol-durned train gives herself four hours' lee-way?" Tom spat with dignity, and remarked casually: "Long as she ain't likely to meet any train going down, seems to me there ain't any use to git warmer than is necessary." "If she keeps on," drawled Jock, "she'll have a head-on collision with herself some day. Is that the dying shriek of the blasted hussy?" Tom stopped the imminent expectoration. "It be," he announced, and went out on the track to welcome the guest. "She do look," he contemplatively remarked, "like she had an all-fired jag on." The train came in sight, swaying unsteadily on its rickety tracks. Puffing, panting and hissing, it reached the platform and stopped jerkily. Murphy sprang from the engine; the conductor strode with dignity worthy a Pullman official, to the one passenger coach behind the baggage car, and assisted a very young and very sickly man to alight. Tom Smith, with energy concentrated on this single activity of the twenty-four hours, began hurling mail-bag and boxes about with the abandon that marks the man whom Nature has fitted to his legitimate calling. Filmer eyed the passenger with disapproving interest; Murphy, after looking at some part of the machinery, lolled up to Jock. "Is that it?" Filmer nodded toward the stranger, who sat exhaustedly upon a cracker-box, destined for the Black Cat, with his suit-case at his feet. "It ain't, then," Murphy returned. "It got on the Branch 'stead of the Mountain Special, by mistake. It's a lunger bound for the lakes, and some one gave him a twist as to the track an' we caught 'im. But shure, the rale thing, the parson, when I was after tellin' 'im of the job what was at this end of the game, he up and balked--divil take 'im!--an' said he wasn't goin' to tie for time and eternity, two unknown quantities. What do ye think of that?" Jock thought hotly of it, and expressed his thought so fervidly that the boy on the cracker-box gave attention.