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TEE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE
of neutralness. A storm is an awful thing. It
sends m e n 's thoughts homing, like frightened, lonely pigeons back to t h e i r nest; it sets laws loose for the moment — laws of Nature and those man-made — filling the gray, impalpable, shadowy world with creeping shapes of mystery or ill. Even the most practical of men, as Andy was. feels his common sense adrift on a s e a of imagination. He ran the car into the shack, bolted the door and turned homewards, whistling damply in
subdued, under-the-breath fashion. The curtain of rain swayed about his shoulders, revealing momentary flashes of tree7stumps or goblin-armed bushes, and underfoot the loose gravel ran ahead of his footsteps in showers down the steep path to the ravine. Suddenly he paused, straining ahead with eye and ear. Voices? And such voices, hoarse and menacing, muffled by the wisps of fog.
"Hi tell yer it's a goP mine, fellers. Aint a trip she dont carry ten thou'. An' it's ourn f'r th' arskin'." A chuckle made a threat of the words.
"Th' bridge's th' place f'r th' job," monotoned another. " 'Oo's got th' soup? You, Bill? Hall right."
"Now soon's th' bloke wit' th' car goes 'ome, we'll start — aint any too soon."
"Hist!"
In the strained silence a pebble bounded, singing, down the ravine ; gravel crunched warningly ; a twig,
I'LL BE HOME AT LAMPLIGHT, HE PROMISED
somewhere above, snapped like an insect pistol-shot. Andy, whitefaced, was feeling his way back up the steep path toward the shack; the roar of blood in his ears drowned the sound of his own incautious footsteps. Aware only of the passi n g of precious moments, he stumbled on, his thoughts outracing him to the shack and the car. The mail ! She would be due in an hour, and there was no way to warn her but to get to the next station beyond the bridge in time. The fog pressed him back, like clutching fingers, strangely like. It choked his nostrils like fierce hands, and then turned red beneath his puzzled, closing eyes.
"Hover he goes into th' drink, bovs — dead men cant peach. Aha! Now f'r th' car."
1 1 Susie ! ' ' the man moaned, i 1 Susie ! ' ' He beat the water with lax fingertips, sending ugly, red streaks across the scummy gray. Was it a nightmare, this heavy weight upon his head, this sense of struggling thru painful eternities of darkness toward the light ? Oh, kind Heaven ! was there no light anywhere in all the world? He opened difficult lids, straining thru the murk in a travail of returning consciousness. The train! He sobbed the words aloud, wrenching himself to his knees in the pool, groping for hand-hold on the slippery bank. Under his clawing fingers, the rain-loosened earth tore