It had been snowing ever since the Buffalo express left New York, but
the Pullman car passengers, comfortably housed, were no more conscious
of the weather than they were of each other. When the train stopped
unexpectedly at a flag station, the whispering of the snowflakes against
the window-panes made itself heard, and the presence of the passengers
made itself felt. The car instantly became a room whose occupants
discovered one another at the same moment, and sat staring into each
other's faces with all the gloom of fellow-patients in a doctor's
office. The silence was embarrassing and absurd. A nervous passenger
coughed to relieve the tension, and felt himself flushing under the
concentrated attention of the entire company. A woman leaned forward to
speak to her neighbour, but stopped as though conscious of some
indecorum. Then everyone sat perfectly quiet, and the slow throb of the
engine was the only sound from the frosty world outside.
At last the conductor opened the door, and the passengers gazed at him
as if they had never seen his like before. When he stamped the snow off
his feet they watched him with a charmed intensity. When he spoke they
started perceptibly.
--"Anybody named Glenning in this car?"
--"Yes--here."
All eyes centred on the speaker, a middle-aged, well-dressed,
commonplace man occupying a corner chair.
--"A telegram for you, Sir."
Mr. Glenning slowly adjusted his glasses, peered at the address on the
yellow envelope, took a penknife from his pocket and cut the flap with
great deliberation.
The passengers watched his face with the breathless interest of an
audience viewing the climax of some mighty drama where every movement of
the actors must be noted. But Mr. Glenning read the message without the
slightest change of expression.
"If you want to send an answer you can do it. We wait here for a few
minutes longer."
"I'll tell you in a moment."
Mr. Glenning took from his vest-pocket a small, red book with indexed
margin, opened it about the middle, ran his finger down the edge,
stopped toward the foot of the page and said:
"No answer. Any charge? No? Thank you."
The audience gave vent to its relief in a relaxing stir and rustle. Mr.
Glenning picked up his newspaper and began to read. The engine whistled
two sharp warnings, the wheels slipped once or twice on the icy rails,
the whispering of the snowflakes hushed and the inmates of the flying
Pullman once more forgot each other.
When the train reached Albany the last passenger to leave the car picked
up the telegram which Mr. Glenning had crumpled and thrown upon the
floor. But his curiosity was only partly satisfied by reading:
_Mr. John Glenning,
Passenger on No. 44.
Effervescent Albany._
Had he possessed Mr. Glenning's code he would not have been much wiser,
for the translated message simply read as follows:
_The party wanted is in Albany._