"Well, I--I'd say quite a few hundred, at least."
The odd little figure bobbed his head.
"Thet's what Old Tom always sed," he muttered, more to himself than to
his hearer. "An'--an' I guess I ain't never rightly believed him till
naow." And then: "Is--is New Yor-rk any bigger?" he asked.
The man at the picket fence smiled again, but the smile was without
offense.
"Well, yes," he answered. "Yes, considerably bigger, I should judge.
Twice as large, at least, and maybe more than that."
The boy did not answer. He just faced about to stare once more. And
then the miracle came to pass. Around a far bend in Dexter Allison's
single spur track there came careening an ashmatic switch engine with a
half-dozen empty flats in tow. With a brave puffing and blowing of
leaky cylinder heads, it rattled across an open space between piles of
timber in the mill-yard and disappeared with a shrill toot of warning
for unseen workmen upon the tracks ahead. The boy froze to
granite-like immobility as it flashed into view. Long after it had
passed from sight he stood like a bit of a fantastic figure cut from
stone. Then a tremor shook him from head to foot, and when it came
slowly about Caleb saw that his small face was even whiter than it had
been before beneath its coat of tan and powdery dust.
He swallowed hard, and tried to speak--and had to swallow again before
the words would come.
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