One day, early in November, a young man of slight figure,
apparently not far from twenty-five years of age, descended from
the cars at the Wellington station and, crossing the track,
passed through the small station-house to the rear platform.
"Can you tell me," he inquired of a bystander, "whether there is
any conveyance between this place and Rossville?"
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "That's the regular carriage, and
here's the driver. Ajax, here's a passenger for you."
"I have a trunk on the other side," said the young man,
addressing the driver. "If you wild go round with me, we will
bring it here."
"All right, sir," said Ajax, in a businesslike way.
The trunk was brought round and placed on the rack behind the
wagon. It was a large black trunk, securely bound with brass
bands, and showed marks of service, as if it had been
considerably used. Two small strips of paper pasted on the side
bore the custom-house marks of Havre and Liverpool. On one end
was a large card, on which, written in large, bold letters, was
the name of the proprietor, Henry Morton.
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