“Oh—­you—­paid—­for—­them—­all, did you?” quizzed the Youngish Girl before she had time to think.

“No, indeed!” lied the Traveling Salesman loyally.  “But $650 a year?  What can a family man do with that?  Why, I earned that much before I was twenty-one!  Why, there wasn’t a moment after I quit school and went to work that I wasn’t earning real money!  From the first night I stood on a street corner with a gasoline torch, hawking rasin-seeders, up to last night when I got an eight-hundred-dollar raise in my salary, there ain’t been a single moment in my life when I couldn’t have sold you my boots; and if you’d buncoed my boots away from me I’d have sold you my stockings; and if you’d buncoed my stockings away from me I’d have rented you the privilege of jumping on my bare toes.  And I ain’t never missed a meal yet—­though once in my life I was forty-eight hours late for one!—­Oh, I’m bright enough,” he mourned, “but I tell you I ain’t refined.”

With the sudden stopping of the train the little child in the Young Electrician’s lap woke fretfully.  Then, as the bumpy cars switched laboriously into a siding, and the engine went puffing off alone on some noncommittal errand of its own, the Young Electrician rose and stretched himself and peered out of the window into the acres and acres of snow, and bent down suddenly and swung the child to his shoulder, then, sauntering down the aisle to the door, jumped off into the snow and started to explore the edge of a little, snow-smothered pond which a score of red-mittened children were trying frantically to clear with huge yellow brooms.  Out from the crowd of loafers that hung about the station a lean yellow hound came nosing aimlessly forward, and then suddenly, with much fawning and many capers, annexed itself to the Young Electrician’s heels like a dog that has just rediscovered its long-lost master.  Halfway up the car the French Canadian mother and her brood of children crowded their faces close to the window—­and thought they were watching the snow.

And suddenly the car seemed very empty.  The Youngish Girl thought it was her book that had grown so astonishingly devoid of interest.  Only the Traveling Salesman seemed to know just exactly what was the matter.  Craning his neck till his ears reddened, he surveyed and resurveyed the car, complaining:  “What’s become of all the folks?”

A little nervously the Youngish Girl began to laugh.  “Nobody has gone,” she said, “except—­the Young Electrician.”

With a grunt of disbelief the Traveling Salesman edged over to the window and peered out through the deepening frost on the pane.  Inquisitively the Youngish Girl followed his gaze.  Already across the cold, white, monotonous, snow-smothered landscape the pale afternoon light was beginning to wane, and against the lowering red and purple streaks of the wintry sunset the Young Electrician’s figure, with the little huddling pack on its shoulder, was silhouetted vaguely, with an almost startling mysticism, like the figure of an unearthly Traveler starting forth upon an unearthly journey into an unearthly West.