Where Two Roads Meet

So he leaned back on the crimson velvet-cushion of his seat, and felt
very comfortable and composed, thinking of nothing in particular. He
became pleasantly interested, as the daylight began to make things
visible without, in trying to count the number of wires on the
telegraph-poles. It would have been easy enough if they had only kept
along at an invariable level; but they were always rising--rising--then
jumping through the pole with a snap!--then ducking suddenly--sinking,
crossing one another--sometimes scudding along close to the ground,
then flying up beyond the range of the window--anon scooting beneath
a dark arch--now indistinguishable against a pine-wood--then
rising--rising--jumping--ducking--sinking--as before. Though exerting
all his faculties of observation, it was impossible to be quite certain
how many wires there were.

He was nearly alone in the car, and would probably continue to be for an
hour or so at least. He reversed the seat in front of him, and put up
his feet, leaving the telegraph-wires to scud and dodge unnoticed. He
fixed his eyes upon the sweltering stove in the farther corner of the
car. There was a roaring fire within, as he could tell by the vivid red
that glowed through the draught-holes beneath the door, and showed here
and there along the cracks. The sides of the car against which the stove
stood was protected with zinc; a number of short sticks of wood were
piled beside it, ready to replenish the fire, and some of them were
already smoking a little, as if in anticipation. Presently the brakeman
came in, with a flurry of cold air, his neck and head rolled up in a
dirty-brown knit woolen tippet, and clumsy gloves on his hands. He took
the poker, and opened the stove-door with it, peeped into the red-hot
interior a moment, grasped a solid chunk of wood from the pile, and
popped it in cleverly; then he stood for a moment, patting the stove
with his gloved hands, to warm them, till, in response to the whistle,
he dashed out, slamming the doors as only car-doors can be made to slam,
and Bressant could dimly distinguish him, through the frosted window,
working away at the brake.