RETURN TO GLENWOOD 135 



eleven-year-old stationmaster's coming story, for he had an 

 interesting way of putting things. 



" He warn't walking away either, but come straight 

 towards me." 



"Weren't you frightened, Mike.''" suggested some one. 



"Sure," replied the little man; "but I stopped right 

 still, and as I hadn't no gun I jes' said somethin' that I 

 knew 'ud scare him proper." 



" What did ye say, Mike ? " 



" Well, I ses quite quiet like, ' Go way, you black devil, 

 or I'll send you to St. John's by the accommodation train,' 

 and you should ha' seen him scoot." And Mike looked 

 sadly upon me as a prospective sufferer. 



We were due to leave Glenwood at 7 p.m., and punctually 

 at five minutes past i a.m. the train, with its long string of 

 baggage cars, steamed slowly into the station. Far away, 

 and out in the darkness, overhanging a pool of water, was 

 the passenger coach, on which was painted the curious legend 

 "First Class." The train was designated as "mixed," not 

 out of compliment to the passengers, but to individualise its 

 component parts. It is really a baggage train, with a coach 

 sandwiched between the trucks, so that the passengers may 

 experience the full joys of shunting, which takes place at 

 every heap of lumber piled beside the track between Bay 

 of Islands and St. John's, a distance of five hundred miles. 

 This journey is variously performed in two days, or, with 

 the help of a snowstorm or a spring wash-out, in a week. 



I opened the door of the "First Class" carriage, and 

 was at once greeted with a terrible atmosphere. There were 

 eight hard benches, capable of holding two passengers on 

 each, and occupied by twelve men, four women, and three 

 children. Of course there was no seat to be had, so I sat 



