"Whut they standin' ther' fer?" he said. "Some folks ain't got enough
sense to go in outen the rain, seems so."

"'T ain't rainin'--not so's to call it so," said the crony, whose name
was Smith. "The gell's pretty."

"Ya-as, kind o'," agreed the station-agent, tilting back critically.
"Boy's upstandin'."

"Which one?"

"Big 'n. Little 'un ain't got no git-up-'n'-git fer one o' his size.
Look at him holdin' to her hand."

"Sunthin' ails him," Smith said. "Ain't all there I guess."

The station-agent nodded a condescending agreement, and cocked his foot
on another box. At this moment the upstanding boy detached himself from
his companions, and strode to where the old man sat.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "can you tell me how far it is to the
Baldwin farm, and whether any of Mr. Sturgis's freight has come yet?"

"Baldwin fa'm?" and the station-agent scratched his ear. "Oh, you mean
out on the Winterbottom Road, hey? 'Beout two mile."

"And Mr. Sturgis's freight?"

"Nawthin' come fer that name," said the agent, "'less these be them." He
indicated four small packages in the baggage-room.