To the newsboy, who had been leaning against the storefront lost in admiration, it seemed that he had caught in Telfer’s talk an echo of the kind of talk that must go on among men in the big outside world. Had not this Telfer travelled far? Had he not lived in New York and Paris? Without understanding the sense of what had been said, Sam felt that it must be something big and conclusive. When from the distance there came the shriek of a locomotive, he stood unmoved, trying to comprehend the meaning of Telfer’s outburst over the lounger’s simple statement. “There’s the seven forty-five,” cried Telfer, sharply. “Is the war between you and Fatty at an end? Are we going to lose our evening’s diversion? Has Fatty bluffed you out or are you growing rich and lazy like Papa Geiger here?” Springing from his place beside the blacksmith and grasping the bundle of newspapers, Sam ran down the street, Telfer, Valmore, Freedom Smith and the loungers following more slowly. When the evening train from Des Moines stopped at Caxton, a blue-coated train news merchant leaped hurriedly to the platform and began looking anxiously about. “Hurry, Fatty,” rang out Freedom Smith’s huge voice, “Sam’s already half through one car.” The young man called “Fatty” ran up and down the station platform. “Where is that bundle of Omaha papers, you Irish loafer?” he shouted, shaking his fist at Jerry Donlin who stood upon a truck at the front of the train, up-ending trunks into the baggage car. Jerry paused with a trunk dangling in mid-air. “In the baggage-room, of course. Hurry, man. Do you want the kid to work the whole train?” An air of something impending hung over the idlers upon the platform, the train crew, and even the travelling men who began climbing off the train. The engineer thrust his head out of the cab; the conductor, a dignified looking man with a grey moustache, threw back his head and shook with mirth; a young man with a suit-case in his hand and a long pipe in his mouth ran to the door of the baggage-room, calling, “Hurry! Hurry, Fatty! The kid is working the entire train. You won’t be able to sell a paper.” The fat young man ran from the baggage-room to the platform and shouted again to Jerry Donlin, who was now slowly pushing the empty truck along the platform. From the train came a clear voice calling, “Latest Omaha papers! Have your change ready! Fatty, the train newsboy, has fallen down a well! Have your change ready, gentlemen!” Jerry Donlin, followed by Fatty, again disappeared from sight. The conductor, waving his hand, jumped upon the steps of the train. The engineer pulled in his head and the train began to move. The fat young man emerged from the baggage-room, swearing revenge upon the head of Jerry Donlin. “There was no need to put it under a mail sack!” he shouted, shaking his fist. “I’ll be even with you for this.”