"Oh! there's a boy!" cried Maggie, amazed at her own relief. "How
often do the trains come in?" she asked.
"Well, we don't have many trains in the off-season," said Paul.
"They put on several extra ones in the summer."
"Oh, what's the sand doing?" Maggie cried.
She had seen sand often enough in her own Glebeshire, but never sand
like this. Under the influence of the wind it was blowing and
curving into little spirals of dust; a sudden cloud, with a kind of
personal animosity rose and flung itself across the rails at Maggie
and Paul. They were choking and blinded--and in the distance clouds
of sand rose and fell, with gusts and impulses that seemed personal
and alive.
"What funny sand!" said Maggie again. "When it blows in Glebeshire
it blows and there's a perfect storm. There's a storm or there
isn't. Here--" She broke off. She could see that Paul hadn't the
least idea of what she was speaking.
"The sand is always blowing about here," he said. "Now what about
tea?"
They walked back through the High Street and not a soul was to be
seen.
"Does nobody live here?" asked Maggie.
"The population," said Paul quite gravely, "is eight thousand, four
hundred and fifty-four.
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