WHEN the railroad came to Benson, it reached down from a lake port, a feeble little tentacle of iron which joined another feeble tentacle that had pushed up from a river point. Theoretically, its coming was in response to the town's need, because of its mills and warehouses, and the bounty of its waving fields of grain; so Colonel Sharp declared in an editorial which contained much Latin, some very superior English, and numerous allusions to destiny; and the town, lacking not in local pride, and having had dreams of civic greatness, was prepared to believe that its importance as a commercial centre was the magnet that drew the road thither.

But Jacob Benson and some others knew that the real reason the railroad came, was that they had exchanged certain dollars for uncertain stock; that but for this, the line would have sought the town of Carthage, distant some twenty miles to the east, where the air was heavy with the reek of soft-coal smoke, the chimneys of the blast furnaces blazed unceasingly in the night, and a small but active population worked, drank, and fought, beyond what was habitual to any other population of its size in the State.

While the general public was favourable to the road, there were certain wise ones who clung with satisfaction to the memory of days when the pioneer turned the corn of his clearing into whisky; his wheat into flour; and rafted his produce down the Little Wolf River, and thence by the Ohio and Mississippi to New Orleans, where boat and cargo were exchanged for Spanish silver. These, dubiously regarding what the world in its short-sighted folly was pleased to call progress, pointed out that even yet, all the town traded in, found its way conveniently enough by the stage road to lake or river point; so it mattered not that the Little Wolf had become a failing stream, flowing through depleted forest lands; so shallow, where it had once floated great rafts, that now the lightest skiff was steered with difficulty among the encroaching sand-bars.

These ancient oracles, looking back over forty years through a haze of pleasant memories, took no stock in Colonel Sharp's mouthfilling sentences. They declared that the advent of the railroad meant the town's ruin, for how could a town reasonably expect to thrive unless it was at either one end or the other of a line?

For full ten years there had been talk of this railroad, but when it did come and when the first brief wonder of it was past, it was at once as a familiar thing; even in the full effulgence of its newness, it was not quite a miracle; it had been a miracle when fifty miles away; it was still a miracle when this distance had been reduced to ten miles; and then when the first train steamed into Benson, the wonder seemed almost as remote, as the day when the first horse was broken and ridden by the first man, that pre-historic genius who had found his own legs all too short for the work they must do.

The railroad came to the town of Benson the year Benson, the man, returned from the West. It came visibly one cold February day in a flurry of snow, and with the fall of twilight; a puffing, panting engine, of even then obsolete type, drawing a single dingy coach, once spectacularly decked with streamers and flags, now wet and bedraggled. It rumbled out of the deep cut north of town, at a rate of speed variously estimated by the crowd of men at the station at from ten to thirty miles an hour.

Young Jacob Benson, as a stockholder, with certain other public-spirited citizens, who between them had taken some hundreds of shares in the enterprise, formed a little group with Mr. Cammack the mayor; Captain Tompkins, the sheriff; Mr. Bently, the postmaster; the members of the town council, Colonel Sharp of the Pioneer, and Judge Bradly, whose presence could be counted on at any public gathering where there was the slightest possibility of argument or oratory, for both of which, so eminent an authority as Colonel Sharp had declared him singularly fitted.

This opinion having been carried to the judge, it had provoked a sentiment of such tropic warmth on his part, that the colonel rarely crossed the square going from his office to the tavern for so simple a thing as a drink of whisky, without the judge, whose office windows also overlooked the square, starting in instant pursuit. Being favoured as to the distance he had to cover, he was usually able to plant himself squarely in the path of his victim; and the colonel, mild of eye and mein, and lacking in decision of character, invariably proffered the expected invitation.

Now the judge held the editor affectionately by the arm; but ventured only such remarks as he felt must fully sustain the other's opinion of his intellectual attainments; but to live up to the flattering opinion the colonel entertained for him, had its difficulties; it was quieting and not conducive to conversation; and while he felt the present was a great occasion, an occasion pregnant with deep significance for the future, he searched his mind, which was pleasantly vacant, for some thought that would be adequate to the moment.

A wave of enthusiasm diffused itself over the crowd as the engine's headlight swung out of the cut north of town.

“Why, the infernal thing's smoking like a cook stove!” cried Mr. Bartlett at Benson's elbow.

Benson turned to the stage driver,

“Are you going with us?” he asked.

“Me ride on that doggone wheezy contrivance, me risk my life on that blame steaming invention where I'm likely to be set afire any minute? No, sir! You don't catch me!”

Benson laughed.

“I don't think you need fear that; you'd better come along.”

But Mr. Bartlett only shook his head.

“And they say the stage is done for, put out of business by that ornery looking concern. I don't believe it, people's got too much sense. I wouldn't like to think my fellers was such damn fools. What time will she make, do you reckon; ten miles an hour?”

“Twice that, three times that,” said Benson.

Mr. Bartlett shook his head.

“That,” said he, “is one of your yarns. It can't be done; a man can't set still and get his breath going at that clip. Blame it! we are coming to pretty times. It will scare the hosses, it will run over cows; damned if it ain't real dangerous! What's to keep it from just scooting off through the fields, from getting clear loose?” He skipped back suddenly in some alarm as the engine rolled past, but when it came to a stop he recovered his courage. “The town's done for,” he mourned. “I'm glad I ain't a property owner; catch me owning a house in a town that's got a railroad! Travel will just be sliding past at a top-notch gait; it ain't going to be like the stage, where all hands stop to take a drink at the tavern and put good money in circulation. Now they'll be piling through in their foolish haste. The big towns 'll suck the blood out of the little towns.”

“His is the world-old cry against the new,” murmured the judge in the colonel's ear with a wise shake of the head.

“They say the government's stopped work on the national roads!” cried Mr. Bartlett more in sorrow than in anger. “And the canals is done for, too! Well, there's plenty of sense in a canal, for its natural to ride on the water, and I ain't opposed to anything that's natural, but I'm agin all foolishness.”

An old man, bent and withered, and leaning heavily on a cane, pushed his eager way into the centre of the little group.

“Why, Mr. Randall, what are you doing here?” said the stage driver. “I reckon you don't take much stock in this foolishness? You've heard a heap too much nonsense talked in your time to be fooled now.”

The old man shot him a shrewd glance out of his beady black eyes.

“It's fat Jim Bartlett!” he said in a shrill cracked treble. “Fat Jim Bartlett, who's seeing the last of his easy hoss-driving job.”

“Don't you believe it, pap!” said the stage driver good-naturedly.

The old man rapped on the new station platform with his heavy thorn walking stick.

“Why ain't there more doing, jedge?” he said. “You should ha' seen us here when the fust stage coach come through from clean acrost the mountings.”

“Do you remember that?” asked Colonel Sharp interestedly.

“Do I remember it! I've seen this here country grow outen the timber. It was rolling green for two hundred miles, smooth and round as a duck's breast, when I crost the mountings; not a clearing, not a road, not a house. I seen the fust booted foot that was put onto the trace; the fust shod hoof; I seen the fust grist of corn that was ground on the Little Wolf; I seen the fust barrel of whisky that was run outen a still; I seen the fust flat-bottomed boat that was poled up from the Ohio; I seen the fust wheeled cart that General Landray fetched in from Virginia, when he come with his niggers; and I seen the fust stage coach, and rid in it, too, long enough afore your time, fat Jim Bartlett! That's enough to crowd into one life time, ain't it?”

“You seen a plenty when you seen the stage, pap,” said Mr. Bartlett, tolerantly. “I believe in letting good enough alone, I do. The world got on pretty tolerable well for a many year without none of these here railroads!”

But the stage driver had the argument to himself; the judge and

Benson and their friends were entering the coach, and they had taken old Pap Randall with them. And then presently the miracle of steam and iron rumbled off down the track to cross the new railroad bridge which spanned the Little Wolf River not two hundred yards distant from where the old covered bridge stood, stained and weather-beaten, with here and there a board missing.

The river rippled beneath the bridges, the old and the new, where it had once swept in silent volume, soundless and deep. From the bank above, the big warehouses cast long black shadows.

The day of flat boats had come and gone; the river, with its failing flow and the sand-bars that choked its channel, had been the first means of pioneer trade; and now the stage road was doomed too, this new marvel had come to usurp its use, to take its place, its trade, its life; the life of cross-road shops, and stores, and taverns. It would soon be shorn of its dignity, its traffic of herds and flocks, and heavy merchandize, the hurry and bustle of its flying mail stages; to be left a thing disused, a mere country highway, the relic of a day of lesser needs and smaller activities. Two strands of wire, hung on poles, followed the course of the railroad; and on these the wind played a dirge.

It was midnight when their little journey by rail ended; and Judge Bradly attached himself to Benson as the party separated. The night was cold and raw, and the two men walked rapidly up the street. They came to the judge's boarding-house, and Benson paused.

“Good-night, judge,” he said.

The judge was searching his pockets one after another. “I seem to have lost my key. This thing of boarding is a great mistake. Every man should have a wife to let him in when he stays out late!”

“See if you can make some one hear; if you can't, you'd better come with me,” said Benson.

The judge mounted the steps and began to pound vigorously on the door. He continued this for a minute or two, pausing at intervals to listen.

“Oh, come along!” cried Benson impatiently.

The judge abandoned the attempt, however, with some reluctance, but he rejoined Benson after delivering a final kick to the door.

“I like,” said he, adjusting himself to a new and pleasant train of thought as they moved away, “I like a hot whisky when I come in late; it's been one of the little luxuries I have carried into my lonely state.”

“You shall have your hot whisky, judge,” said Benson.

“My dear Jake, you must not let me put you to any trouble; for I know that admirably conducted as your house is, you rather ignore the liquids. So if hot whiskey makes too great a demand, I'd suggest that just plain whisky is preferable to no whiskey at all. When a man is on the wrong side of fifty, his little nips do him a world of good.”

They had reached their destination, and Benson unlocked his office door and motioned the judge to precede him into the room.

A lamp was burning on his desk, and the big logs he had thrown on the fire earlier in the evening had wasted to a mass of glowing coals. He added a stick or two, and soon a cheerful blaze was roaring in the wide chimney. Having rid himself of his hat and coat, Benson produced a black bottle and two glasses from his cupboard, and sugar and a pitcher of hot water from the kitchen; the judge watched these preparations with grave but silent approval. This approval grew and reached its zenith, when he on one side of the fireplace, and his host on the other, smiled and nodded over the rims of their glasses. They sipped in silent enjoyment, with their feet thrust out toward the fire.

“Jake,” said the judge, “it's well that the pitcher has capacity. This is just right. If you attempted to duplicate it, you might fail. Failure is always a sad thing, Jake, a thing to be avoided.”

“It is,” agreed Benson.

“My dear boy, I am troubled,” said the judge. He threw a certain significance into the glance that accompanied these words.

“And what have you to worry about?” questioned the younger man lazily.

“I'm alone,” began the judge in his mellow voice. “Quite alone. I may say a homeless vagabond. This is the second time I've been locked out this winter. Now I ask you, Jake, what sort of a life is this for a man of my years, and if you will allow me, my position?”

“Well,” said Benson, cheerfully, “you shouldn't forget your key.”

“That's a detail I never had to burden myself with in Mrs. Bradly's lifetime, sir. It was her pride to care for me in such matters; it furnished her with occupation.” There was a long pause, during which the judge's glass was filled and emptied and filled again, and then he spoke.

“Have you seen Mrs. Landray recently?” he asked.

“Which Mrs. Landray?”

“Bush's widow.”

“Not recently; why?”

“I was merely curious.” And he was silent again, but not for long. “Jake?”

“Yes, judge.”

“She's going to make a fool of herself.”

“I dare say,” said Benson indifferently.

The judge stared at him in some surprise.

“You dare say?” he repeated.

“I mean it's quite likely.”

“In what particular?” demanded the judge.

“Oh, in any particular,” said Benson. “I haven't formulated any definite theories where she is concerned.”

The judge considered this in silence for a time.

“This is merely a general opinion?” he asked at last.

“Merely a general opinion,” said Benson amiably.

“Then you haven't observed any new developments?”

“No;” and Benson yawned.

“You have heard no gossip?”

“None; I didn't know there was any.”

“You are quite sure you haven't noticed anything, Jake?”

“Quite.”

“Not this new bent of hers?”

“Oh, you mean her religious interests? Why, they're natural enough. I thought them rather hopeful.”

“Hopeful!” repeated the judge bristling.

“Yes, certainly; religion's a good thing for any one.”

“Religion!” and the judge snorted the word with angry contempt “Well, if you choose to call it religion!”

“What do you call it?” inquired Benson.

“Observe me, Jake; a man seems as necessary to some women's religion as a God. In her case, it's that long-legged scarecrow from India! You mark my words, the little fool will marry him! Well, she could 'a done better.”

“What!” cried Benson. “Dr. Stillman; no!”

“The little fool will marry him,” repeated the judge slowly and sternly. Then he sighed deeply.

“And what if she does,” said Benson.

“Well, I am glad you can view it so calmly.”

“I can, just that calmly,” said Benson cheerfully.

“I can't,” said the judge. “To me, sir, it is a mater of considerable moment.”

“Oh, I see,” said Benson.

“My dear boy, this is a weakness I shrink from revealing, but I feel assured of your delicacy, so I shall speak frankly and without reserve.” The judge considered for a moment. “I have had, how many whiskies, Jake?”

“Five,” said his host promptly.

“I made it four; but never mind, it's a point on which I am likely enough to be mistaken.”

“What's that to do with it?” inquired Benson.

“The vine,” said the judge, “inspired some of the choicest outbursts of classic poetry; I suppose the distillery will some day inspire a truly American muse—you don't follow me?”

“Not quite.”

“The point is that I may speak with an abandon I should eschew at another time. Five hot whiskies make a difference in the intensity of a man's emotions. To-morrow I shall probably regret my candour; so I want to feel that in remembering what I say to-night, you will not fail to recall that this excellent mixture may have had something to do with it.”

“I think I understand,” said Benson laughing.

“Two o'clock in the morning confidences are always personal, Jake; a man seldom stays up late unless it is to talk of himself, or to drink, and in either case the result is the same; he says too much.”

“Aren't you rather forgetting Mrs. Landray?” inquired Benson.

“Jake, it's outrageous that she should be allowed to sacrifice herself.”

“I didn't know—” began Benson.

“You are going to say you didn't know it was a matter of any interest to me.”

“Something of the sort,” said Benson. “When I came back you did seem interested, but I didn't take it seriously; and to tell you the truth your interest struck me as premature.”

“That was only your inexperience, Jake; it's quite evident your knowledge in such matters is all gleaned at second hand. I dallied with the situation too long. I couldn't quite make up my mind; there are merits in being married, and there are merits in being single; you can't have your cake and eat it, too; and while I was pondering the matter, Stillman cut in. It was plain from the very moment he arrived in town that he was to have the pick of our eligible female population. Disgusting, ain't it?”

“Very,” agreed Benson.

“I'm threshing over old chaff with you, Jake. My chances now are about like the camel's at getting through the needle's eye, not worth mentioning.”

“Then you did come to a decision?”

“After I had hung fire long enough to decide I wanted what some other man had won. That's one of the risks you take when you wait until you're sure you're right before you go ahead.”

“As a widower, judge—”

“At present a widower, Jake; kindly phrase it so; for who is master of his fate?” he adjusted his stock rather pompously. “I am a man of some sentiment. Drat it! At fifty odd, and with sound health, one does not willingly admit that the best things in life are past! There are other widows—damn it, sir! There are maids, too!” and he wagged his head and leered knowingly at Benson. The hot whisky had steadily diminished, but for its disappearance the judge and not Benson was responsible. The judge now tilted the pitcher over the glass he held in his uncertain right hand, but only a drop or two fell from it; he looked hard at his host, but his host avoided his glance. With a sigh he placed the pitcher bottom up on the floor at his feet, and his glass beside it, also inverted. “Jake, have you any influence with her?”

“Not the least in the world, judge.”

“Hum! That's unfortunate. I hoped that you might have, and that you might be willing to exert it in my behalf; casually, of course, very casually; a word here, a word there.”

“I would if I possessed it, judge; but you see in trying to control her expenditures I have sacrificed some portion of her regard.”

“And her money will go to that confounded missionary!” and the judge groaned aloud in bitterness of spirit.

“But how do you know that it will?” asked Benson.

“It is as plain as the nose on your face! He is always there, and she has become a terrible prig; and last night I found her reading, what do you think, Jake? Edwards on 'Redemption!' She told me she felt instructed, quickened, strengthened, by its precious message! Now she'd stick to a lighter intellectual diet if there wasn't a man in sight; she's after more than redemption! Jake, can't you help me? I'm to be pitied, sir! I no sooner see some female capable of engendering a sentimental interest in my breast, than fate intervenes,” he smiled darkly. “I don't mind telling you that this is the third minister of the Gospel who has crossed my path.”

He had fallen more and more a prey to his sorrow, until it quite unmanned him, his forebodings becoming of the most gloomy character imaginable.

“I shall nip the bud of affection next time before it becomes the open flower of love! I'm marked for disappointment; I feel its blight, and I succumb! Confound it, Jake! she led me on, now I come to think of it—her conduct's been highly scandalous! I wonder what her friends, what her sister-in-law is going to say, when this gets out?”

“I wonder, too!” said Benson.