From the direction of the ticket window, Presley heard the unsteady chittering of the telegraph key.

In the shadow of one of the baggage trucks upon the platform, the great yellow cat that belonged to the agent dozed complacently, her paws tucked under her body.

Three flat cars, loaded with bright-painted farming machines, were on the siding above the station, while, on the switch below, a huge freight engine that lacked its cow-catcher sat back upon its monstrous driving-wheels, motionless, solid, drawing long breaths that were punctuated by the subdued sound of its steam-pump clicking at exact intervals.
But evidently it had been decreed that Presley should be stopped at every point of his ride that day, for, as he was pushing his bicycle across the tracks, he was surprised to hear his name called.

"Hello, there, Mr.Presley.

What's the good word ?" Presley looked up quickly, and saw Dyke, the engineer, leaning on his folded arms from the cab window of the freight engine.