The snow came swirling across the plain, cold and wet, pasting the window and blurring the headlight on the black locomotive that was climbing laboriously over the kinks and curves of a new track.  Here and there, in sheltered wimples, bands of buffalo were bunched to shield them from the storm.  Now and then an antelope left the rail or a lone coyote crouched in the shadow of a telegraph-pole as the dim headlight swept the right of way.  At each stop the Superintendent would jump down, look about, and swing onto the rear car as the train pulled out again.  At one time he found that his seat had been taken, also his overcoat, which had been left hanging over the back.  The thief was discovered on the blind baggage and turned over to the “city marshal” at the next stop.

Upon entering the train again, the Superintendent went forward to find a seat in the express car.  It was near midnight now.  They were coming into a settlement and passing through prosperous new towns that were building up near the end of the division.  Near the door the messenger had set a little green Christmas tree, and grouped about it were a red sled, a doll-carriage, some toys, and a few parcels.  If the blond doll in the little toy carriage toppled over, the messenger would set it up again; and when passing freight out he was careful not to knock a twig from the tree.  So intent was he upon the task of taking care of this particular shipment that he had forgotten the Superintendent, and started and almost stared at him when he shouted the observation that the messenger was a little late with his tree.

“’Tain’t mine,” he said sadly, shaking his head.  “B’longs to the fellow ’t swiped your coat.”

“No!” exclaimed the Superintendent, as he went over to look at the toys.

“If he’d only asked me,” said the messenger, more to himself than to the Superintendent, “he could ‘a’ had mine and welcome.”

“Do you know the man?”

“Oh, yes—­he lives next door to me, and I’ll have to face his wife and lie to her, and then face my own; but I can’t lie to her.  I’ll tell her the truth and get roasted for letting Downs get away.  I’ll go to sleep by the sound of her sobs and wake to find her crying in her coffee—­that’s the kind of a Christmas I’ll have.  When he’s drunk he’s disgusting, of course; but when he’s sober he’s sorry.  And Charley Downs is honest.”

“Honest!” shouted the Superintendent.

“Yes, I know he took your coat, but that wasn’t Charley Downs; it was the tarantula-juice he’d been imbibing in Omaha.  Left alone he’s as honest as I am; and here’s a run that would trip up a missionary.  For instance, leaving Loneville the other night, a man came running alongside the car and threw in a bundle of bills that looked like a bale of hay.  Not a scrap of paper or pencil-mark, just a wad o’ winnings with a wang around the middle.  ‘A Christmas gift for my wife,’ he yelled.  ‘How much?’ I shouted.  ‘Oh, I dunno—­whole lot, but it’s tied good’; and then a cloud of steam from the cylinder-cocks came between us, and I haven’t seen him since.