He looked at his watch, made a rapid calculation that showed him he had
about five minutes before the train's departure, and then he hurried off
to his right and down the stairs that led to the lavatories.

It was Colonel Robert Lee Ashley, as Bruce Garrigan had seen him at the
Fifth Avenue club, who entered one of the pay compartments where so many
in-coming and out-going travelers may, for the modest sum of ten cents,
enjoy in the railroad station a freshening up by means of soap, towels
and plenty of hot water.

But it was a typical Southern politician, with slouch hat, long frock
coat, a moustache and goatee, who emerged from the same private wash-room
a little later, carrying a small, black valise.

"I don't like to do this," said Colonel Ashley, making sure the spirit
gum had set, so his moustache and goatee would not come off prematurely,
"but I have to. This fishing is getting better, and I don't want any of
the fish to see me."

Then he went down the steps to the train that soon would be whirling him
under the Hudson river, along the Jersey meadows, and down to the cool
shore. He passed through the string of coaches until he came to one
where he found a seat behind a certain man. Into this vantage point the
colonel, looking more the part than ever, slumped himself and opened his
paper.

"Yes, the fishing is getting better - decidedly better," he mused. "I
shouldn't wonder but what I got a bite soon."