“I didn’t,” said David, staring at the other in amazement.

“He deserved it,” explained Father Roland.  “I love to see a good, clean blow when it’s delivered in the right, David.  I’ve seen the time when a hard fist was worth more than a preacher and his prayers.”  He was chuckling delightedly as they turned back to the train.  “The baggage is arranged for,” he added.  “They’ll put us off together at the Frenchman’s.”

David had slipped the thin packet into his pocket.  He no longer felt so keenly the desire to tell Father Roland about the woman—­at least not at the present time.  His quest had been futile.  The woman had disappeared as completely as though she had actually floated away into that pit of darkness beyond the far end of the platform.  He had drawn but one conclusion.  This place—­Graham—­was her home; undoubtedly friends had been at the station to meet her; even now she might be telling them, or a husband, or a grown-up son, of the strange fellow who had stared at her in such a curious fashion.  Disappointment in not finding her had brought a reaction.  He had an inward and uncomfortable feeling of having been very silly, and of having allowed his imagination to get the better of his common sense.  He had persuaded himself to believe that she had been in very great distress.  He had acted honestly and with chivalric intentions.  And yet, after what had passed between him and Father Roland in the smoking compartment—­and in view of his failure to establish a proof of his own convictions—­he was determined to keep this particular event of the night to himself.

A loud voice began to announce that the moment of departure had arrived, and as the passengers began scrambling back into their coaches, Father Roland led the way to the baggage car.

“They’re going to let us ride with the dunnage so there won’t be any mistake or time lost when we get to Thoreau’s,” he said.

They climbed up into the warm and lighted car, and after the baggage-man in charge had given them a sour nod of recognition the first thing that David noticed was his own and Father Roland’s property stacked up near the door.  His own belongings were a steamer trunk and two black morocco bags, while Father Roland’s share of the pile consisted mostly of boxes and bulging gunny sacks that must have weighed close to half a ton.  Near the pile was a pair of scales, shoved back against the wall of the car.  David laughed queerly as he nodded toward them.  They gave him a rather satisfying inspiration.  With them he could prove the incongruity of the partnership that had already begun to exist between him and the Missioner.  He weighed himself, with Father Roland looking on.  The scales balanced at 132.

“And I’m five feet nine in height,” he said, disgustedly; “it should be 160.  You see where I’m at!”

“I knew a 200-pound pig once that worried himself down to ninety because the man who kept him also kept skunks,” replied Father Roland, with his odd chuckle.  “Next to small-pox and a bullet through your heart, worry is about the blackest, man-killingest thing on earth, David.  See that bag?”