As the Capital Express train dashed into the village of Bruceton one
bright afternoon, a brakeman passing through a car was touched on the
shoulder by a man, who said,--

"The man that left this in the seat in front got out three stations
back. You don't s'pose he'll want it again an' send back for it, do
you?"

The brakeman looked at an object which the speaker held up as he spoke:
it was a small fig-box, such as train-boys sometimes succeed in
imposing upon the traveling public, and it still contained several
figs.

"Want it again?" said the brakeman, with a scornful curl of the lip
that gave his black moustache a Mephistophelian twist, "of course not.
He left it there so's to get rid of it, like most of 'em do. I wouldn't
buy one of them boxes of--"

The brakeman suddenly ceased talking, and put both hands on the
passenger's shoulders with the movement peculiar to train-men whose
duty it is to rouse sleeping passengers, the effect always being to
make the victim throw his head slightly backward. Then the brakeman
looked a moment into the face before him,--it was small, weak-eyed, and
characterless,--and continued,--

"Why, Sam Kimper, I didn't know you from Adam! That broad-brimmed low
hat makes you look like somebody else. When did you get out?"

"This mornin'," said the passenger, dropping his eyes.