Ben's City; and this possibility is so pleasant that he puts out his light, the only one showing in the town, and goes to bed.

At the foot of a long street, so close to the river that its single light casts a ghastly glare into the water, stands the railroad station, where the agent awaits the arrival of the single train that visits the place daily,—for only a few people want to go to Davy's Bend, and not many are left to move away,—so the agent mutters at the rain and the darkness, and growls at the hard fate that keeps him up so late; for, of all the inhabitants of the place, he is the only one who has business to call him out at night. There are no people in Davy's Bend who are overworked, or whose business cares are so great as to make them nervous or fretful; so they sleep and yawn a great deal, and have plenty of time in which to tell how dull their own place is, and how distressingly active is Ben's City, located in the country below them, and which is admired even by the river, for it is always going in that direction.

Fortunately, on this misty night the agent has not long to wait; for just as he curls himself up in his chair to rest comfortably, certain that the train will be late, there is a hoarse blast from a steam whistle up the road, which echoes through the woods and over the hills with a dismal roar, and by the time he has seized his lantern, and reached the outside, the engine bell is ringing softly in the yard; the headlight appears like a great eye spying out the dark places around the building, and before he has had time to look about him, or express his surprise that the wheels are on time, a few packages have been unloaded, and the train creeps out into the darkness, hurrying away from Davy's Bend, like the river and the people.

There is but one passenger to-night: a man above the medium height and weight, dressed like a city tradesman, who seems to own the packages put off, for he is standing among them, and apparently wondering what disposition he is to make of them; for the agent is about to retire into the station with his books under his arm. Evidently the stranger is not good natured, for he hails the official impatiently, and inquires, in a voice that is a mixture of indignation and impudence, if the hotels have no representatives about, and if he is expected to remain out in the rain all night to guard his property.

The agent does not know as to that, but he does know that the stranger is welcome to leave his packages in the building until morning, which arrangement seems to be the best offering, for it is accepted, after both men have denounced the town until they are satisfied; for no one pretends to defend Davy's Bend, so the agent readily assents to whatever the stranger desires to say that is discreditable to his native place, while he is helping him to carry the trunks and bundles into the light.

When the rays of the single lamp in the station fall upon the stranger, the agent at first concludes that he is middle-aged, for a new growth of whiskers covers his face completely; but he thinks better of this during the course of his inspection, and remarks to himself that the owner of the packages is not as old as he seemed at first glance, but he is a man not satisfied with himself, or with anything around him,—the agent is sure of that; and as he helps with the baggage, of which there is a great deal, he keeps thinking to himself that it will stand him in hand to be more polite than usual, for the stranger looks sullen enough to fight with very little provocation. His quick, restless eyes were always busy,—the agent feels certain that he has been measured and disposed of in a glance,—but the longer he looks at the stranger the more certain he becomes that the packages he is helping to handle contains goods of importance, for their owner is evidently a man of importance.

"There must be gold in that," the agent says, as he puts his end of one of the trunks down, and pauses to rest. "I have been agent here a good many years; but if that is not an excess, I never had hold of one. Now for the rest of them."

The work is soon finished, and after extinguishing the light the agent steps upon the outside, locks the door, and puts the key into his pocket.

"I am sorry," he says, as he stands with the stranger outside the door, on a covered platform, where they are protected from the rain, "but I go in this direction, while the hotel lies in that," pointing the way. "It's a rough road, and you may have trouble in getting them up, but I guess you will get there if you go far enough, for the hotel stands directly at the head of the street. It's a pity that the town does not afford an omnibus, or a public carriage, but it doesn't, and that ends it. I intend to go away myself as soon as I can, for the company does not treat me any too well, though it is generally said that another man could not be found to do the work as I do it for the money."

By this time the agent has his umbrella up, which appears to be as dilapidated as the town, for it comes up with difficulty, so he says good night cheerily, and disappears; and the traveller, after shivering awhile on the platform, starts out to follow the direction given him, floundering in the mud at every step.

There is a row of houses on either side, with great gaps between them, and he is barely able to make out the strip of lighter shade which he judges is the street he is to follow, the night is so dark; but as the hotel is said to lie directly across his path, he argues that he is sure to run into it sooner or later, so he blunders on, shivering when he realizes that he is becoming wet to the skin. After travelling in this manner much longer than was desirable, finding the sidewalks so bad that he takes to the middle of the street, and finally goes back to the walk again in desperation; stumbling over barrels and carts, and so much rubbish that is oozy and soft as to cause him to imagine that everything is turning into a liquid state in order that it may leave the place by way of the gutters, the rivulets, and the river, he becomes aware that a lantern, carried by one of two men, whose legs are to be seen in long shadows, is approaching, and that they are very merry, for they are making a good deal of noise, and stop frequently to accuse each other of being jolly old boys, or thorough scoundrels, or dreadful villains, or to lean up against the buildings to discuss ribald questions which seem to amuse them. Apparently they have no destination, for after one of their bursts of merriment they are as apt to walk up the street as down it; and believing them to be the town riff-raff out for a lark, the stranger tries to pass them without attracting attention when he comes up to their vicinity; but the one who carries the lantern sees him, and, locking arms with his companion, adroitly heads the traveller off, and puts the lantern so close to his face that he dodges back to avoid it.

"Tug," the man says, in an amused way, "a stranger. There will be a sensation in Davy's Bend to-morrow; it hasn't happened before in a year."

Believing the men to be good-natured prowlers who can give him the information he is seeking, the stranger patiently waits while they enjoy their joke; which they do in a very odd fashion, for the man who carries the lantern, and who, the stranger noticed when the lantern was raised, was rather small, and old, and thin-faced, leans against his companion, and laughs in an immoderate but meek fashion. The fellow who had been addressed as Tug had said nothing at all, though he snorted once, in a queer way, which threw his companion into greater convulsions of merriment than ever, and changing their position so that they support themselves against a building, one of them continues to laugh gayly, and the other to chuckle and snort, until they are quite exhausted, as though a stranger in Davy's Bend is very funny indeed.

"There will be a train going the other way in three hours,—for both the trains creep through the town at night, as if they were ashamed to be