It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Frank Courtney left the cars and set foot on the platform before the station at Prescott, five miles distant from the town of Jackson, in Southern Minnesota.
He looked about him, but could see no village.
Prescott was a stopping place for the cars, but there was no settlement of any account there, as he afterward found.
He had supposed he would find a stage in waiting to convey him to Jackson, but it was clear that the business was not large enough to warrant such a conveyance.
Looking about him, Frank saw a farm wagon, the driver of which had evidently come to receive some freight which had come by rail.
Approaching the driver, who seemed to be-though roughly dressed-an intelligent man, Frank inquired:
"How far is Jackson from here, sir?"
"
