As one who means to attack, or who fears attack, he approached warily. He wore high boots, riding breeches, and a sombrero. He was a little man, but his movements were alert and active. To David he seemed unnecessarily excited. He thrust himself close against David. “Who the devil are you?” demanded the man from the tug. “How'd you get here?” “I walked,” said David. “Walked?” the man snorted incredulously. “I took the wrong train,” explained David pleasantly. “They put me off about a mile below here. I walked back to this flag station. I'm going to wait here for the next train north.” The little man laughed mockingly. “Oh, no you're not,” he said. “If you walked here, you can just walk away again!” With a sweep of his arm, he made a vigorous and peremptory gesture. “You walk!” he commanded. “I'll do just as I please about that,” said David. As though to bring assistance, the little man started hastily toward the tug. “I'll find some one who'll make you walk!” he called. “You WAIT, that's all, you WAIT!” David decided not to wait. It was possible the wharf was private property and he had been trespassing. In any case, at the flag station the rights of all men were equal, and if he were in for a fight he judged it best to choose his own battle-ground. He recrossed the tracks and sat down on his suit case in a dark corner of the shed. Himself hidden in the shadows he could see in the moonlight the approach of any other person. “They're river pirates,” said David to himself, “or smugglers. They're certainly up to some mischief, or why should they object to the presence of a perfectly harmless stranger?” Partly with cold, partly with nervousness, David shivered. “I wish that train would come,” he sighed. And instantly? as though in answer to his wish, from only a short distance down the track he heard the rumble and creak of approaching cars. In a flash David planned his course of action. The thought of spending the night in a swamp infested by alligators and smugglers had become intolerable. He must escape, and he must escape by the train now approaching. To that end the train must be stopped. His plan was simple. The train was moving very, very slowly, and though he had no lantern to wave, in order to bring it to a halt he need only stand on the track exposed to the glare of the headlight and wave his arms. David sprang between the rails and gesticulated wildly. But in amazement his arms fell to his sides. For the train, now only a hundred yards distant and creeping toward him at a snail's pace, carried no head-light, and though in the moonlight David was plainly visible, it blew no whistle, tolled no bell. Even the passenger coaches in the rear of the sightless engine were wrapped in darkness. It was a ghost of a train, a Flying Dutchman of a train, a nightmare of a train. It was as unreal as the black swamp, as the moss on the dead trees, as the ghostly tug-boat tied to the rotting wharf. “Is the place haunted!” exclaimed David.