Mark me down as a good prophet, will you? There's a washout a mile
further on, and a telegraph pole across the track. It's blowing great
guns and raining pitchforks. It'll be out of the question for us to go
forward before daylight, if then. Darn a railroad man's job anyhow!"
Five minutes later Mr. Graves descended the steps of the car, his
traveling bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. As soon as
both feet were securely planted on the platform, he put down the bag
to wrestle with the umbrella and the hurricane, which was apparently
blowing from four directions at once. Feeling his hat leaving his head,
he became aware that the umbrella had turned inside out. He threw the
wreck violently under the train and stooped to pick up the bag. The bag
was no longer there.
"It's all right," said a calm voice behind him. "I've got your satchel,
neighbor. Better beat for harbor, hadn't we? Here! this way."
The bewildered New Yorker felt his arm seized in a firm grip, and he was
rushed across the platform, through a deluge of wind-driven water, and
into a small, hot, close-smelling waiting room. When he pushed his hat
clear of his eyes he saw that his rescuer was the big man who boarded
the train at Ostable. He was holding the missing bag and smiling.
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