Harber and Janet sat in the long grass, their hearts stirring with
the same urgent, inarticulate thoughts, their hands clasped together.
"Let's wait for Eighty-seven," she said.
Harber pressed her hand for reply.
In the mind of each of them Eighty-seven was the symbol of release
from Tawnleytown, of freedom, of romance.
Presently a shifting light appeared in the east, a faint rumble
became perceptible and increased. The swaying shaft of light
intensified and a moment later the long-drawn poignancy of a
chime-whistle blowing for the river-road crossing, exquisitely
softened by distance, echoingly penetrated the still valley.
A streak of thunderous light swam into view and passed them,
plunging into a gap in the west. The fire-box in the locomotive
opened and flung a flood of light upon a swirling cloud of smoke. A
sharp turn in the track, a weak blast of the whistle at the
bridge-head, and the "Limited," disdaining contemptible Tawnleytown,
had swept out of sight--into the world--at a mile to the minute.
"If I were on it," said Harber slowly.
Janet caught her breath sharply. "You're a man!" she said fiercely.
"You could be--so easily!"
Harber was startled for a moment. Her kindling of his flame of
adventure had been very subtle until now.
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