up a barber, and proceed to part with enough hair and whiskers to upholster an automobile; and upon the completion of his tonsorial adventures he would encase his person in a suit of mauve-coloured silk pajamas, climb into bed and stay there for forty-eight hours, merely waking long enough to take another bath, order up periodical consignments of ham and eggs and, incidentally, make certain that a friendly side-winder or chuck-walla hadn't crawled under the blankets with him.
So much for John Stuart Webster's plans. Now for the gentleman himself. No one—not even the Pullman porter, shrewd judge of mankind that he was—could have discerned in the chrysalis that flagged the Limited the butterfly of fashion that was to be. As the ebony George raised the vestibule 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, 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 Sweeney?”
John Stuart Webster turned to his cosmopolitan comrades of the national game. “Listen to him,” he entreated them. “He has worked for the company, lo, these many years, and he doesn't know who Sweeney is?” He eyed the conductor severely. “Sweeney,” he declared, “is the man who is responsible for the whichness of the why-for. Ignorance of the man higher up excuses no sleeping-car conductor, and if your job is gone when you reach Salt Lake, old-timer, don't blame it on me, but rather on your distressing propensity to ask foolish questions. Vamos, amigo, and leave me to my despair. Can't you see I'm happy here?”
“No offense, Mr. Webster, no offense. I can let you have a stateroom——”
“That's trading talk. I'll take it.”
The conductor gave him his receipt and led him back to the stateroom in the observation-car. At the door Webster handed him a five-dollar bill. “For you, son,” he said gently, “just to take the sting out of what I'm about to tell you. Now that I possess your receipt and know that ten men and a boy cannot take it away from me, I'm going to tell you who Sweeney is.”
“Who is he?” the conductor queried. Already he suspected he had been outgeneralled.
“Sweeney,” said Mr. Webster, “is the chief clerk in one of Chicago's most pretentious hotels and a young man who can find all the angles of a situation without working it out in logarithms. I wired him the details of my predicament; he heard the Macedonian cry and kicked in. Neat, is it not?”
The conductor grinned. “I hate to take your money,” he declared.
“Don't. Just at present I'm very flush. Yes, sir, I'm as prosperous as a yearling burro up to his ears in alfalfa, and the only use I have ever found for money is to make other people happy with it, thereby getting some enjoyment out of it myself. Just as soon as I get a little chunk together, some smarter man than I takes it all away from me again—so the cleaning process might just as well start here. When I'm broke I'll make some more.”
“How?”
“By remembering that all a man needs in this world, in order to excel, is about two per cent, more courage than a jack-rabbit; also that an ounce of promotion in a world of boobs is worth a ton of perspiration. Thank you for falling for my bluff.”
And having wotted the which, Mr. Webster retired to his hard-won sanctuary, where he removed as much alkali and perspiration as he could, carded his long hair and whiskers, manicured his finger nails with a jack-knife, changed his shirt, provided five minutes of industry for George,
