“Stand back, gentlemen,” he cried to the foremost of the throng that poured eagerly into the car,—­“stand back a moment.  This poultry is in charge of the express messenger, and we have no right to take it without his license.”

As he spoke, he placed himself beside the messenger.  There was a determination in his eye and manner that held the crowd back for a short time.

“The chickens are mine,” the messenger said; “I bought them on speculation; they will spoil before I can get anywhere with them, and they are now too late for Thanksgiving.  You may have them for what I gave.”

“I will give five dollars towards paying for them”; and Samson Newell drew out his pocket-book.

“Here’s a dollar!” “I’ll give a half!” “Count me in for two dollars!” cried the crowd, favorably struck with the notion of paying for their provender.

But one hulking fellow, with a large mock diamond in his shirt-front, and clumsy rings on his coarse and dirty fingers, stepped forward and said that he was a hungry man, that he had lost money by the——­ company already, waiting a day and a night in that blamed snow-bank, and that he was going to have a chicken,—­or two chickens, if he wanted them,—­and he was decidedly of the opinion that there was no express messenger on the train who would see the color of his money in the transaction.

Samson Newell was evidently a man of few words in a case of emergency.  He paused for only an instant to assure himself that the man was in earnest, then he slid open one of the side-doors of the express-car, and stretched forth a hand whose clutch was like the closing of a claw of steel.  He seized the bejewelled stranger by the coat-collar, shook him for an instant, and dropped him,—­dropped him into a soft snow-drift whose top was level with the car-floor.  Whether the unfortunate worked a subterranean passage to one of the passenger-cars and there buried himself in the privacy of a saloon is not known; he certainly was not seen again till after relief came to the imprisoned train.

There was neither noise nor confusion in the matter of paying for and dividing the poultry.  Samson Newell had already made himself prominent among the captive travellers.  He had eaten nothing himself, that he might the better provide, so far as his limited provision went, for his wife and children; he had even gone through the cars with his scanty luncheon of cakes and apples, and economically fed other people’s little ones, besides administering to the wants of an invalid lady upon the train, who was journeying alone.  He was, therefore, a favorite with all on board.  His action, enforcing payment for the provision that would very likely, but for him, have been taken by force, caused the passengers to defer to him as a leader whose strength and courage fitted him for the post, and so he presided at the distribution of the chickens without dispute.