me man, the Philosopher, with which he
had come into Patsy's life, and Patsy had resolved never to turn his
back upon a man who was down on his luck.

The Philosopher's face was indecipherable. Finally when they had come to
the turning point in the shadow of the mail car, he stopped, leaned
against the corner of the tank and said: "I can't make you out, and you
haven't made out your case."

"I don't follow you," said the man.

"No? Well suppose I say, for answer, that I'll let you go--sneak away up
through the yards and lose yourself; provided you promise not to do it
again."

"You talk in riddles. What is it that I am not to do again? You say you
have hit the road yourself, and you ought to have sympathy for a fellow
out o' luck."

"I have, and that's why I'm going to let you go. Your story is a sad
one, and it has softened my heart. It's the story of my own life."

"Then how can you refuse me this favor, that will cost you nothing?"

"Hadn't you better go?"

"No, I want you to answer me."

"Well, to be frank with you, you are not a tramp. You've got money, and
you had red wine with your supper, or your dinner, as you would say."

The man laughed, a soundless laugh, and tried to look sad.

"You've got a gold signet ring in your right trousers pocket."

The man worked his fingers and when the Philosopher thought he must have
the ring in his hand, he caught hold of the man's wrist, jerked the hand
from his pocket, and the ring rolled upon the platform. When the man cut
off the end of his cigar the Philosopher had seen a white line around
one of the fingers of the man's sea-browned hand. Real tramps, thought
the Philosopher, don't cut off the ends of their cigars. They bite them
off, and save the bite. They don't throw a half-smoked cigar away, but
put it, burning if necessary, in their pocket.

"What do you mean?" demanded the man, indignantly.

"Pick up your ring."

"I have a mind to smash you."

"Do, and you can ride."

"You've got your nerve."

"You haven't. Why did you stare at that lady's feet, when she was
climbing into the car?"

"That's not your business."

"It's all my business now."

"I'll report you for this."

The man started to walk past the big station master, but a strong hand
was clapped to the man's breast pocket and when it came away it held a
small pocket memorandum.

"See what's in that, Patsy," said the Philosopher, passing the book to
the conductor, who had gone forwar