SIDE-TRACKED

Out of the window of the locomotive projected the head of the substitute engineer. There was the frown of concentration on his countenance; his eyes were half closed in a studious but vain effort to penetrate the solid whiteness. He could not even see the smoke-stack. He craned his neck and kept his hand on the throttle. Just ahead of the locomotive travelled a small illusive area of illuminated mist. This was the best that the primitive old headlight could do.

Suddenly, within that small moving area, like printing in the weakly brightened circle of a toy magic lantern, appeared the end of a word and the whole of another word. The first part of the first word was evidently outside the little area of dusky light. The printing within the compass of brightness read:

The letters G-O-O-D preceding the dale, and the word FARM, following the word MANOR were not visible to mortal eye. Nothing was visible to mortal eye but a dim, unsubstantial mass, and those hovering, dusky, uncertain words DALE MANOR.

But they were enough. The beginning and the end, nestling coyly in the fog, were not necessary to inform the substitute engineer that Snailsdale Manor was proclaiming itself. It was at that moment that the throttle was pulled with desperate suddenness and Mr. Pylor Koyn went reeling into the arms of Clamordinevich Vociferinski just as he was reaching for his little black coffin. And it was in that same moment that Hink, the conductor, sprang out of his slumber and yawned sleepily.

“Snailsdale Manor! A-a-a-l-l out for Snailsdale Manor!”

And there you are. Out of the train strode A. Pylor Koyn carrying two suitcases. He was followed by C. Vociferinski, who was followed by Mrs. Gamer, who was followed by her adventurous daughter, Pocahontas Gamer.

Behind these, striding with arrowlike military carriage, followed Chester (alias Chesty) Marshall; and ambling leisurely behind him as if they really did not care where they were going or whether they got out or not, came the “two perfectly lovely fellows” of Hydome University, with whom it is the author’s pleasure to make you acquainted—Fuller Bullson and Raysor Rackette. Their manner suggested a willingness to follow, whether it be to the wilds of Africa or the North Pole; a kind of whimsical half interest in anything which might involve piquant adventures.

“I have a hunch that things are not what they seem,” said Raysor Rackette; “I heard there was a house here. The plot grows thicker.”

“Silence,” said Fuller Bullson, “’tis the fog that is thick, also, methinks, thine own head. Have you got the fishing tackle?”

“This is a different manner of Snailsdale Manor than I expected,” said Raysor; “I see no church. This is not my beloved Snailsdale; ’tis a plot.”

“All the better,” said Fuller Bullson.

“Diss iss not so motch villatch,” said Vociferinski.

“Right the first time, Trotsky,” said Fuller. “Feel around and you’ll find it; it’s just mislaid.”

“Are you sure you are not leading us astray, Cap?” Raysor asked of A. Pylor Koyn who had just stepped out into the mud.

“I will not turn back!” thundered A. Pylor Koyn. “I presume this is Snailsdale Manor, but in any case I will not turn back. If anybody can show me a house with a roof on it and something to eat inside it I will thank him. I’ve had enough of this! Where is the bus that was supposed to be here?”

“Look under the train,” said Chesty Marshall.

“It is not there,” said Fuller Bullson.

“Then we’ll walk!” said A. Pylor Koyn.

“We’re with you,” said Raysor Rackette.

By that time our suffering victims were assembled in a little group in the mud. The train was rumbling slowly away. Hink, the conductor, was continuing the dream that was appearing serially in his mind, punctuated by the stations.

“I understood that a bus from the Snailsdale House would be here,” said A. Pylor Koyn.

“Misfortunes seem to pile on us,” said Mrs. Gamer, almost at the point of despair. “We can never walk through this mud, and besides we don’t know where to walk.”

“All the better,” said Fuller Bullson; “we can’t go wrong if we don’t care where we go; my mother taught me that.”

“I wish my mother had,” said Pocahontas. “Mistakes are only in the imagination,” said Raysor; “there is really no such thing as a mistake. It’s a mistake to suppose that there is.”

“Right you are, Ray,” said his friend. “The trouble with most people is they’re always wanting to go to some particular place. And see the trouble they get in. One place is as good as another if not better.”

“Diss it is what you call no blase,” said Vociferinski.

“Better still,” said Fuller.

“If anybody can show me a house with a roof on it and something to eat inside it—” said A. Pylor Koyn, in a grim tone of wrath and despair.

He never finished uttering this altogether liberal offer to the world. For out of the depths of the fog arose a voice like a siren calling out of the tempestuous ocean.

“I know a house with a roof on it and it’s got lots of food inside of it and you can have a dipper of milk whenever you want it and they’re going to kill a pig next week and they always have ice cream on Sundays, because I turn the freezer and they always have two helpings of dessert!”

“Hark,” said Fuller Bullson, “methinks I hear you calling me.”

“It’s a wagon!” said Miss Pocahontas Gamer. “Look!”

“It’s got a roof because I can prove it, because here’s a shingle, and we’ll take you right there!” thundered the voice. “This isn’t Snailsdale Manor, it isn’t any station at all, but anyway this wagon goes to Goodale Manor Farm and it’s a kind of a station and a bus all kind of rolled into one and maybe even a station that isn’t a station is better than one that is. All aboard for Goodale Manor Farm! You get fresh eggs and milk and two desserts and a roof too! All aboard for Goodale Manor Farm!”