Truxton King

Again he blew a kiss to the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Snuffing his candle, he dropped to the ground and closed the door against all spying, uncivil eyes.

The first grey of dawn was growing in the sombre east. He looked out over the tops of cars and sniffed the air. The rain was over. He knew. A tinge of red that none but the gypsy could have distinguished betrayed the approach of a sunny day. Jauntily he swung off down the path between the lines of cars, his fickle mind wavering between the joys of the coming day and the memory of the loveliest Romany he had ever encountered.

Daybreak found him at the wharf gates. It was gloomy here and silent; the city above looked asleep and unfruitful. His heart was gay; he longed for company. Whimsical, careless hearted, he always obeyed the impulse that struck him first. As he stood there, surveying the wet, deserted wharf, it came to him suddenly that if he went back and played one soft love-song before the door of the car, they might invite him to join them in the breakfast that the genie had brought.

His long legs were swift. In five minutes he was half way down the line of cars, at the extreme end of which stood the happy lodging place of his heart's desire. Then he paused, a dubious frown between his eyes. No! he said, slapping his own cheek soundly; it would not be fair! He would not disturb them, not he! How could he have thought of such a thing. Le bon Dieu! Never! He would breakfast alone!

Coming to an empty flat car, direct from the quarries, he resolutely seated himself upon its edge, and, with amiable resignation, set about devouring his early meal, all the while casting longing, almost appealing glances toward the next car but one. Busy little switch engines began chugging about the yards; the railroad, at least, was exhibiting some signs of life. Here and there the crews were "snaking" out sections and bumping them off to other parts of the gridiron; a car here, a car there--all aflounder, but quite simple to this merry wanderer. He knew all about switching, he did. It did not cause him the least uneasiness when a sudden jar told him that an engine had been attached to the distant end of the string in which he breakfasted. Nor was he disturbed when the cars began to move. What cared he? He would ride in his dining-car to the objective switch, wherever that was, and no doubt would find himself nearer the main freight depot, with little or no walking to do on his journey to the square.