He became aware of some one waiting at his elbow. The lank young man had
spoken to him twice.

"Well?" said Banneker sharply. "Oh, it's you! How did you get back so
soon?"

"Under the hour," replied the other with pride. "Your message has gone.
The operator's a queer duck. Dealing faro. Made me play through a case
before he'd quit. I stung him for twenty. Here's some stuff I thought
might be useful."

From a cotton bag he discharged a miscellaneous heap of patent
preparations; salves, ointments, emollients, liniments, plasters.

"All I could get," he explained. "No drug-store in the funny burg."

"Thank you," said Banneker. "You're all right. Want another job?"

"Certainly," said the lily of the field with undiminished good-will.

"Go and help the white-whiskered old boy in the Pullman yonder."

"Oh, he'd chase me," returned the other calmly. "He's my uncle. He
thinks I'm no use."

"Does he? Well, suppose you get names and addresses of the slightly
injured for me, then. Here's your coat."

"Tha-anks," drawled the young man. He was turning away to his new duties
when a thought struck him. "Making a list?" he asked.