in Scarboro over-night. The serving people and the baggage were to go on that evening to Snow Camp.
Fred Hatfield sauntered to the rear of the car and stood looking out of the window in the door. The flagman was on the rear platform, however, and he could not get down without being observed. The stop at this town was brief; then the train sped on through the deep woods.
But suddenly the airbrakes were put on again and they slowed down with a good deal of clatter and bumping.
"We're not at Scarboro yet, surely?" cried Mrs. Murchiston.
"No, no!" Mr. Cameron assured them. "We're stopping from some other cause—why, this is merely a flag station. Not even a station—just a crossing."
A white-sheeted road crossed the rails. There were two or three houses in sight and a big general store, over the door of which was painted:
EMORYVILLE P. O.
But the train had stopped and the rear brakeman, or flagman, seized his lamp and ran back to wait for the engineer to recall him. It was growing dusk and the lamps had been lighted the length of the train. The general interest of the
