despite your deep grief, something tells me you're spoofing, so while I must, of necessity, accept your suggestion, said acceptance will be but temporary. In about two hours, young fellow, you're going to make the alarming discovery that you have bats in your belfry.” And with a whiskery grin which, under the circumstances, was charming in its absolute freedom from malice, Mr. Webster departed for the daycoach.     

       Two hours later the conductor found him in the aforementioned daycoach, engaged in a mild game of poker with a mule-skinner, a Chinaman, an aged prospector, and a half-breed Indian, and waited until Mr. Webster, on a bob-tailed club flush, bluffed the Chinaman out of a dollar-and-a-half pot.     

       “Maud, Lily, and Kate!” Webster murmured, as the Celestial laid down three queens and watched his ragged opponent rake in the pot.       “Had I held those three queens and had you made a two-card draw as I did, only death could have stopped me from seeing what you held! Hello! Here's Little Boy Blue again. All right, son. Blow your horn.”     

       “Are you Mr. John S. Webster?”     

       “Your assumption that I am that person is so eminently correct that it would be a waste of time for me to dispute it,” Webster replied quizzically. “However, just to prove that you're not the only clairvoyant on this train, I'm going to tell you something about yourself. In your pocket you have a telegram; it is from Chicago, where your pay-check originates; it is a short, sweet, and comprehensive, containing an order which you are going to obey. It reads somewhat as follows:     

       “'My friend, John S. Webster, wires me from Blank that he boarded train at Blank and was refused first-class accommodation because he looked like a hobo. Give him the best you have in stock, if you have to throw somebody off the train to accommodate him. Unless you see your way clear to heed this suggestion your resignation is not only in order but has already been accepted.' Signed, 'Sweeney.'     

       “Do I hit the target?”     

       The conductor nodded. “You win, Mr. Webster,” he admitted.     

       “Occasionally I lose, old-timer. Well?”     

       “Who the devil is 

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