An hour passed, and the cab was still moving more slowly over the
rough surface of partly paved streets, and by single rows of new
houses standing at different angles to each other in fields covered
with ash-heaps and brick-kilns. Here and there the gaudy lights of a
drug-store, and the forerunner of suburban civilization, shone from
the end of a new block of houses, and the rubber cape of an occasional
policeman showed in the light of the lamp-post that he hugged for
comfort.
Then even the houses disappeared, and the cab dragged its way between
truck farms, with desolate-looking glass-covered beds, and pools of
water, half-caked with ice, and bare trees, and interminable fences.
Once or twice the cab stopped altogether, and Gallegher could hear the
driver swearing to himself, or at the horse, or the roads. At last
they drew up before the station at Torresdale. It was quite deserted,
and only a single light cut a swath in the darkness and showed a
portion of the platform, the ties, and the rails glistening in the
rain. They walked twice past the light before a figure stepped out of
the shadow and greeted them cautiously.
"I am Mr. Dwyer, of the _Press,_" said the sporting editor, briskly.
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