"It seems to me it would be very easy to move it to third place in the deck if you want it there." The baggage-man's bulging eyes seemed ready to pop as he stared at David, and when he saw that David really meant what he had said a look of unutterable disgust spread over his countenance.

Then he grinned--a sickly and malicious sort of grin.
"Say, mister, you've never played solitaire, have you ?" he asked.
"Never," confessed David.
Without another word the baggage-man hunched himself over his table, dealt himself another hand, and not until the train began slowing up for Thoreau's place did he rise from his seat or cease his low mutterings and grumblings.

In response to the engineer's whistle he jumped to his feet and rolled back the car door.
"Now step lively!" he demanded.

"We've got no orders to stop here and we'll have to dump this stuff out on the move!" As he spoke he gave the hundred and ten pounds of beans a heave out into the night.

Father Roland jumped to his assistance, and David saw his steamer trunk and his hand-bags follow the beans.
"The snow is soft and deep, an' there won't be any harm done," Father Roland assured him as he tossed out a 50-pound box of prunes.
David heard sounds now: a man's shout, a fiendish tonguing of dogs, and above that a steady chorus of yapping which he guessed came from the foxes.