“Corned beef hash for mine.  And a lot more coffee than that.  Say, why doesn’t he come?”

Evidently the proprietor had drowned the sound of their entrance with the rattle of dishes, for the swinging door in the partition remained closed and the little ledged window beside it showed only a dim vista of hanging pots and saucepans.  Amy rapped a knife against the edge of a glass and the noise at the rear ceased abruptly, the door swung open and the man in the enveloping white apron viewed them in surprise.  He was a bald-headed, pink-faced little man with a pair of contemplative blue eyes.

“Morning, boys,” he said.  “I didn’t hear you come in.  Don’t usually get customers till most seven on Sundays.  Want something to eat?”

“Yes, can we have something pretty quick?” asked Clint.  “We’re nearly starved.”

“Well, I ain’t got anything cooked, but the fire’s coming up fast and it won’t take long.  What would you want?”

They made known their wishes and the little man leisurely vanished again.  A clock above the counter announced the time to be twenty-five minutes to seven.

“We might have got him to bring us some coffee now,” said Amy.

“I’d rather wait until I get my breakfast,” Clint replied.  “I wonder when we get a train for Brimfield.  I reckon they don’t run very often on Sundays.”

“Maybe this chap can tell us.  We’ll ask him when he comes back.”

Other and delicious odours mingled with the coffee fragrance, and a promising sound of sizzling reached them.  “That,” said Amy, settling back luxuriously and patting his waistcoat, “is my corned beef hash.  I sort of wish I’d ordered an egg with it.  Or, maybe, two eggs.  Guess I will.  Some crullers would taste pretty good, wouldn’t they?”

“Anything would taste good,” agreed Clint longingly.

Ten minutes passed and the door opened to admit another customer.  After that they drifted in by ones and twos quite fast.  The boys gathered that the newcomers were men employed at the railway yards nearby, and presently Amy questioned one who was reading a paper at the next table.

“Can you tell us when we can get a train for Brimfield?” he asked.

“Brimfield?  Yes, there’s one at seven-twelve and one at nine-forty-six.”

“I guess we couldn’t get the seven-twelve,” said Amy, glancing at the clock.  “The other would be all right.”

“I ain’t sure if that one stops at Brimfield, though.  Say, Pete, does the nine-forty-six stop at Brimfield?”

“No,” replied a man at another table.  “Express to New York.”

“You’re wrong,” volunteered a third.  “It runs accommodation from here on Sundays.”

“That’s so,” agreed the other.  “I’d forgot.”

Amy thanked his informant and at that moment the proprietor, who had been in and out taking orders, appeared with the boys’ breakfasts.  The baked beans and the hash were sizzling hot and looked delicious, and the coffee commanded instant attention.  A plate piled with thick slices of bread and two small pats of very yellow butter completed the repast.  For five minutes by the clock not a word was said at that table.  Then, having ordered a second cup of coffee apiece, the boys found time to pause.