Grawson folded the greasy napkin on his lap around the chicken bones and wedged it between the cane seat and the side of the car. He spit on his fingers and pulled on the red mustache that hung over his lips, wiping the grease from the hair. He dried his fingers on his trousers and peered out at the gaslights.

Good, thought Grawson, good, I’m here, and Edward Chance is here.

The train’s whistle came through the thin glass of the single window.

Sparks glowed along the roadbed scattered from the funnel-shaped smokestack on the engine.

He heard the grinding of brakes and the train began to slacken its speed, groaning and clanking the heavy couplings of the cars. Looking out the window Grawson saw briefly the white faces of two gandy dancers, watching the train come in.

Irish, thought Grawson.

Grawson was a large man, short of neck, thick of shoulder, with a square, flattish face. Large hands, red knuckles. His teeth were yellowed by tobacco. His left eye moved peculiarly at times, flinching. But it was a strong face, between a pig and a bear, a face with heavy teeth, a wide nose, eyes as flat and expressionless, as heavy and blunt, as the blade of a shovel.

Grawson looked at himself in the reflection in the window, from the small kerosene lamp above his head. He twisted the screw, extinguishing the lamp. He did not want to look at himself. He had few mannerisms, few things, unimportant things, he worried about, but one was looking into a mirror. Grawson chuckled to himself. It was foolish, he chuckled. He knew it. But he did not care to look into mirrors. He was not sure what might, someday, look back at him. Maybe it would not be him. Maybe it would be something else. His left eye flinched twice, and he squinted out at the lights.

The train was passing now between freight tracks, passing coal sheds, passing piles of ties, passing other cars, drawing into the station.