Surely he had seen the man before.  He gazed at the man’s distressed face, but could not place him.

“What’s the trouble, my friend?” he asked, sitting down in the seat behind and leaning over to speak to him.

“I’m shure I dinna ken, sir, at a’, at a’.  There’s a mistak’ afloat somewhere.  I never was in sic a fix afore.  This is a queer kintry, I tak’ it.”

“Where are you from?”

That question set him on the right track at once.  He could tell his story if once he started at the beginning, though he found it impossible to make these strangers comprehend his present dilemma; so beginning from the time he left his own dooryard with the last cartload of potatoes, he gave them a detailed account of his wanderings up to the time when he met the fine young gentlemen in Halifax.  But he had no idea how he got to Truro; that was all a blank to him.  When Mr. Sherwood explained that the train on which he was riding was a public conveyance which went back and forth daily to carry passengers and freight, he could scarcely believe it.  His own explanation seemed the more plausible, for did it not agree with what the young sexton told him?  He had been befooled once too often to listen to the many explanations of those around him.

But the conductor now appeared, having found out all there was to tell about the man, and feeling annoyed at his mistake, now demanded of the countryman either his ticket or his fare, and threatened to put him off the train at the next station if he did not produce either the one or the other.

“But, ma guid man, I haena a copper aboot me, or it’s wullin’ enough I’d be to gie ye a shullin’ or so for this fine drive.”

“Well, off you get then the next time we stop.”

“But shurely ye wadna be pittin’ a puir man oot o’ yer waggon, or chapel, or whatever ye ca’ it, whan there’s sae mony empty pews?  I’m no croodin’ onyane, an’ I’m wullin’ enough to sit onywhere.”

“We don’t take people on the cars for nothing,” said the conductor, decidedly.  “If you can’t pay, you can’t ride.”

“Weel, it’s the rich anes that’s aye the stingiest, shure enough,” replied the man, more to himself than to the brass-buttoned figure before him.  “But ye widna fin’ the like o’ yersel’ owre in ma kintry, let me tell ye!  The puirest farmer widna refuse to gie a stranger a lift if he was gaun the same way as himsel’, even if it was only a kairt that he had, an’ it loaded to the brim.”

“Can’t help it,” replied he of the buttons, with a grin.  “Off you get at the next station, or we’ll put you off without ceremony.”

“But I’ll no gang aff, if I may be sae bold as to tell ye!” said the now angry farmer.  “Ye took me to Truro against ma wull, for why did I want to gang to a place that I never heard o’ afore; so, then, ye’ll tak’ me back to Halifax again, wullin’ or no, an’ whan I get my money back I’ll sen’ ye the price o’ the drive.  If ye think I’m croodin’ the gentlemen, I’ll gang oot an’ sit on the steps o’ yer backdoor, but, guidness only kens! there seems room enough in these empty pews for a dizzen o’ ma size.”