e unfortunate man with his hand, and now when he removed it
slowly the man's eyes were still closed. He never moved a finger nor
uttered a sound. It was as if he had suddenly fallen asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST

The Denver Limited had backed into the depot shed at Chicago, and was
loading when the Philosopher came through the gate. He was going down to
Zero Junction where he was serving the company in the capacity of
station agent. Patsy Daly was taking the numbers of the cars, and at his
elbow walked a poorly-dressed man, and the Philosopher knew in a moment
that the man wanted to ride.

The Philosopher, with a cigar in his mouth, strolled up and down
catching snatches of the man's talk. In a little while he had gathered
that the anxious stranger's wife lay dying in Cheyenne, and that he had
been tramping up and down the land for six months looking for work. If
Patsy could give him a lift to Omaha he could work his way over the
U. P. where he knew some of the trainmen, having worked on the Kansas
Pacific out of Denver in the early days of the road. His story was so
lifelike and pathetic that Patsy was beginning to look troubled. If he
could help a fellow-creature up the long, hard hill of life--three or
four hundred miles in a single night--without straining the capacity of
the engine, he felt that he ought to do it.

Patsy had gone to the head end (the stranger standing respectfully
apart) to ask the engineer to slow down at the Junction, and let the
agent off. He hoped the man might go away and try a freight train, but
as the conductor turned back the unfortunate traveller joined him.

Now the eyes of Patsy fell upon the face of the Philosopher, and a
brilliant thought flashed through his mind. He marvelled, afterwards,
that he had not thought of it sooner.

"Here, old man," said Patsy, "take this fellow's testimony, try his
case, and let me have your opinion in nine minutes--it's just ten
minutes to leaving time."

Now it was the Philosopher to whom the prospective widower rehearsed
his tale of woe.

There was not much time, so the station agent at Zero began by offering
the man a cigar, which was accepted. In the midst of his sorrowful story
the man paused to observe a handsome woman, who was at that moment
lifting her dainty, silken skirts to step into the sleeper. The
Philosopher had his eyes fastened to the face of the man, and he thought
he saw the man's mustache quiver as though it had been a