In medicine there are cumulative poisons--the effect of small doses at intervals amounting in the end to a single large dose. In matters of heart, temper, and moral restraint there are cumulative poisons, too. Dwight Wade, struggling up as the train jolted to a halt, felt that this last insult, coming as it did out of that brusque, rough-sneering, culture-despising spirit of the woods, exemplified in Pulaski D. Britt, had put an end to self-restraint. It was the same brusque, money-worshipping, intolerant spirit of the woods that sounded in John Barrett's voice when he had sneered at Wade's pretensions to his daughter's hand. There it was now in those roaring voices in the smoking-car. And yet he had come to it--hating it--fleeing from the sight of men of his kind when his little temple of love seemed closed to him, and the world had jeered at him behind his back! He looked through the dirty car windows at the little shacks of the railroad terminus, heard the bellow of voices, gritted his teeth in ungovernable rage at Britt's last words, and determined to--well, he hardly knew what he did propose to do. But it should be something to show them all that he could no longer be bossed and insulted and jeered at--all in that bumptious, braggadocio, bucko spirit of the woods! Both platforms of the cars were swarming with men--men rigged in queer garb: wool leggings, wool jackets striped off in bizarre colors or checked like crazy horse-blankets. Each man in sight carried his heavy brogan shoes hung about his neck. They were singing in fairly good time, and Wade listened to the words despite himself: "Oh, here I come from the Kay-ni-beck, With my old calk boots slung round my neck Here we come--yas, a-here we come-- A hundred men and a jug of rum. WHOOP-fa-dingo! Old Prong Jones!" The girl passed Wade, going down the aisle before he left his seat. He came behind her. But they were obliged to wait at the door. The men crowded close upon both platforms. Each man had a meal-sack stuffed with his possessions. They were all elbowing each other, and the result was a congestion that the kicks of the Honorable Pulaski and the cuffings of Colin MacLeod did little to break. The boss of the Busters kept stealing glances at the girl, as though to challenge her notice, and perhaps her admiration, as she saw him thus a master of men. It was then that the spirit of anger and rebellion seething in Dwight Wade--the cumulative poison of his many insults--stirred him to bitter provocation in his own turn. The girl carried a heavy leather suit-case, and now, waiting for the press of men to escape from the car, she rested it against a seat, and sighed in weariness and vexation. With quiet masterfulness Wade took it from her hand and smiled into the astonished gray eyes that flashed back over her shoulder at him. It was a smile that not even a maiden, offended as she had been, could resist.