His life became somber and, as lightning comes only to clouds, so to his clouded skies came the flash and the blow of a letter from Africa.  It was not from his father, but from Old Ivory.  He found it on the breakfast table and started to open it, but some premonition arrested him.  He laid it aside, tried to finish his meal, and failed.  A thickness in his throat would not let him eat.  He left the table and went into the living-room, closing the door behind him.

He opened the letter and read the first few words, then he sat and stared for many a long minute into the fire, the half-crumpled sheets held tightly in his hand.

Nelton opened the door.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said; “you have an engagement at ten.”

“Break it by telephone,” said Lewis.  “Don’t come in again unless I ring.  I’m out if anybody calls.”

When Nelton had closed the door, Lewis spread the letter on his knee and read: 

    Dear Lew: 

All is well with your dad at last.  I’m a poor hand to talk and a poorer to write, for my finger is crooked to hold a trigger, not a pen.  But he gave me it to do.  Don’t take it too hard that a man with only plain words is blunt.  Your father is gone.

I don’t have to tell you that in the last few weeks before he left you your dad grew old.  He’s grown old before, but never as old as that.  The other times, the mere sight and smell of Africa started his blood again.  But this time he stayed old—­until to-day.

To-day we were out after elephant, and your dad had won the toss for first shot.  We hadn’t gone a mile from camp when a lone bull buffalo crossed the trail, and your dad tried for him—­a long, quick shot.  The bullet only plowed his rump.  The bull charged up the wind straight for us, and before the thunder of him got near enough to drown a shout, your dad yelled out “He’s mine, Ive!  He’s mine!” I held my fire, God help me; so did your dad—­held it till the bull had passed the death-line.  You know with charging buffalo there’s more to stop than just life.  There’s weight and momentum and there’s a rage that no other, man or beast, can equal.

Your dad got him—­got him with the perfect shot,—­but not before the bull had passed the death-line.  And so, dear boy, they broke even, a life for a life.  And your dad was glad.  With the bones of his body crushed to a pulp, he could smile as I’ve never seen him smile before.  He pulled me down close to him and he said:  “Bury me here—­right here, Ive, and tell my boy I stopped to take on a side-tracked car.  That’s a part of our language.  He’ll understand.”

Lewis’s eyes went blind over his father’s words, his father’s message.  “Tell my boy I stopped to take on a side-tracked car.”  Half across the world those words carried him back and back over half of life to a rattling train, a boy, and the wondrous stranger, speaking:  “Every man who goes through the stress of life has need of an individual philosophy...  Life to me is like this train; a lot of sections and a lot of couplings...  Once in a while your soul looks out of the window and sees some long-forgotten, side-tracked car beckoning to be coupled on again.  If you try to go back and pick it up, you’re done.”