“Hum,” he mused. “Don't seem to favor Janie much, does he, Doc. Kind of got her mouth and chin, though. Remember that sort of good-lookin' set to her mouth she had? And SHE got it from old Cap'n Lo himself. This boy's face must be more like his pa's, I cal'late. Don't you cal'late so, Doc?” Whether Doctor Holliday cal'lated so or not he did not say. It may be that he thought this cool inspection of and discussion concerning a stranger, even a juvenile stranger, somewhat embarrassing to its object. Or the lantern light may have shown him an ominous pucker between the boy's black brows and a flash of temper in the big black eyes beneath them. At any rate, instead of replying to Mr. Young, he said, kindly: “Yes, Captain Snow lives in the village. If you are going to his house get right in here. I live close by, myself.” “Darned sure!” agreed Mr. Young, with enthusiasm. “Hop right in, sonny.” But the boy hesitated. Then, haughtily ignoring the driver, he said: “I thought Captain Snow would be here to meet me. He wrote that he would.” The irrepressible Jim had no idea of remaining ignored. “Did Cap'n Lote write you that he'd be here to the depot?” he demanded. “All right, then he'll be here, don't you fret. I presume likely that everlastin' mare of his has eat herself sick again; eh, Doc? By godfreys domino, the way they pet and stuff that fool horse is a sin and a shame. It ain't Lote's fault so much as 'tis his wife's--she's responsible. Don't you fret, Bub, the cap'n'll be here for you some time to-night. If he said he'll come he'll come, even if he has to hire one of them limmysines. He, he, he! All you've got to do is wait, and . . . Hey! . . . Hold on a minute! . . . Bub!” The boy was walking away. And to hail him as “Bub” was, although Jim Young did not know it, the one way least likely to bring him back. “Bub!” shouted Jim again. Receiving no reply he added what he had intended saying. “If I run afoul of Cap'n Lote anywheres on the road,” he called, “I'll tell him you're here a-waitin'. So long, Bub. Git dap, Chain Lightnin'.” The horse, thus complimented, pricked up one ear, lifted a foot, and jogged off. The depot wagon became merely a shadowy smudge against the darkness of the night. For a few minutes the “chock, chock” of the hoofs upon the frozen road and the rattle of wheels gave audible evidence of its progress. Then these died away and upon the windswept platform of the South Harniss station descended the black gloom of lonesomeness so complete as to make that which had been before seem, by comparison, almost cheerful.