As a general proposition, I don't believe much in the things called "hunches." They are badfor the digestion, and as often as not are like those patent barometers that are alwayspointing to "Set Fair" when it is raining like Noah's flood. But there are exceptions to allrules, and we certainly uncovered the biggest one of the lot-the boss and I-the night weleft Portland and the good old Pacific Coast.It was this way. We had finished the construction work on the Oregon Midland; had quit, cleaned up the offices, drawn our last pay-checks, told everybody good-by, and were on ourway to the train, when I had one of those queer little premonitory chills you hear so muchabout and knew just as well as could be that we were never going to pull through toChicago without getting a jolt of some sort. The reason-if you'll call it a reason-was that, just before we came to the railroad station, the boss walked calmly under a ladder standingin front of a new building; and besides that, it was the thirteenth day of the month, a Friday, and raining like the very mischief.Just to sort of toll us along, maybe, the fates didn't begin on us that night. They waited untilthe next day, and then proceeded to shove us in behind a freight-train wreck at Widner, Idaho, where we lost twelve hours. It looked as if that didn't amount to much, because weweren't due anywhere at any particular time. The boss was on his way home for a little visitwith his folks in Illinois, and beyond that he was going to meet a bunch of Englishmen inMontreal, and maybe let them make him General Manager of one of the Canadian railroads.So Mr. Norcross was in no special hurry, and neither was I. I wasn't under pay, but Iexpected to be when we reached Canada. I had been confidential clerk and shorthand manfor the boss on the Midland construction, and he was taking me along partly because heknows a cracking good stenographer when he sees one, but mostly because I was deadanxious to go anywhere he was go
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