Arthur Somers Roche

“ I turned back to the station with the belief that Billy Odlin had prescribed wisely. Surely fantom fears could not exist where the winds of Maine blew. Surely the peace of the country in Wintertime, the cold quiet, would heal the fever that had begun to burn my brain. I felt no apprehension at all about taking the train again. Now that I remembered, in the hours of the forenoon when we stumbled toward Portland I had felt no nervousness. Could it be that the mere fact of leaving the hurly-burly of New York had begun to cure me already? I prayed so as I walked briskly back to the station. ”

“ It was only a little after twelve and, hungry as I was, I was glad that the easy-going Folly Cove schedule had not been too elastic, and that the morning train had gone. I should not have relished continuing my journey without food. I took my bags to the check-room. Leaving there, and starting for the restaurant, water dripped from the visor of my cap. Though it had ceased snowing, a tiny drift piled upon the station roof had broken off as I followed the porter from the train and some of it had impinged upon my cap. The heat of the station had melted it. ”

“ I tipped my ebon attendant, grinned involuntarily at his display of teeth, left my bags upon a bench, and strolled over to the ticket window. I had no time-table beyond Portland.
“When’s the next train for Folly Cove?” I inquired.
“Two o’clock,” was the answer. “The one due to leave at nine-thirty waited a couple of hours for the New York train. You came on her?”
I nodded. “Too bad,” he said. “Still, you’ll get there for supper. Two o’clock,” he repeated. ”