JUDGE TYLER and Tom Beauling stood hand in hand on the platform of the station at Mitford. It was a bright, blue day in the morning.
Presently, far up the track they saw a puff of white smoke, and after an interval came a hoarse whistle. Then there was a distant rumble that grew momentarily louder, and soon the local charged around a curve and came straight at them. Little Beauling looked up to see if the judge was afraid, but he was not. The local grew bigger and louder, the rails trembled, people with satchels came out of the waiting-room; the local began to slow up, the engine crawled by, the tender, the baggage-car, the smoker—then the whole thing stopped with a cough, went on an inch, and stopped, hissing. All got aboard and found seats.
