platform, opened the car door and looked out, he had no confidence in the lean, sun-baked big man standing by the train. Plainly the fellow was not a first-class passenger but a wandering prospector, for he was dog-dirty, a ruin of rags and hairy as a tarantula. The only clean thing about him was a heavy-calibred automatic pistol of the army type, swinging at his hip.
“Day coach an' tourist up in front,” the knight of the whiskbroom announced in disapproving tones and started to close down the platform.
“So I perceived,” John Stuart Webster replied blandly. “I also observed that you failed to employ the title sir when addressing a white man. Put that platform back and hop out here with your little stool, you saddle-coloured son of Senegambia, or I'll make you a hard porter to catch.”
“Yassah, yassah!” the porter sputtered, and obeyed instantly. Mr. Webster handed him a disreputable-looking suitcase and stepped aboard in state, only to be informed by the sleeping-car conductor that there wasn't a vacant first-class berth on the train.
“Yes, I know I'm dirty,” the late arrival announced cheerfully, “but still, as Bobby Burns once remarked, 'a man's a man for a' that'—and I'm not unsanitary. I sloshed around some in Furnace Creek the night before last, and while of course I got the top layer off, still, a fellow can't accomplish a great deal without hot water, soap, a good scrubbing-brush and a can of lye.”
“I'm very sorry,” the conductor replied perfunctorily and endeavoured to pass on, but Webster secured a firm grip on his lapel and frustrated the escape.
“You're not sorry,” the ragged wanderer declared, “not one little bit. You're only apprehensive. However, you needn't be. There is no wild life on me, brother, I assure you. If you can prove it, I'll give you a thousand-dollar bill for each and every bit of testimony you can adduce.”
“But I tell you, the train is full up. You'll have to roost in the daycoach or the tourist. I'm very sorry——”
“So am I, for I know what daycoaches and tourist-cars smell like in the middle of August, because, as the poet says, I've been there many a time and oft.' Nevertheless,
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