"You bet!" said the man with eight trunks full of daintiness in the
baggage car ahead. "It's Needley for ours--you're on!"

The Flopper was an artist--and he was in his glory. Where his position
was indubitably weak, he side-stepped with the frank admission that he
knew no more than they. He knew only one thing, and that was the only
thing he cared about, the rest made no odds to him, he was going down to
Needley to be cured--and he let them see Mr. Higgins' letter.

A porter from the rear car squirmed and wriggled his way down to the
seat occupied by the Flopper.

"Mistah Tho'nton, sah," he announced importantly, "would like to see you
in his private car, if you could done make it convenient, sah."

"Sure!" said the Flopper.

The passengers crowded up, standing on the seats and arm-rests, to make
room for the Flopper to crawl down the aisle, while the porter preceded
him to open the doors.

Through the car in the rear of the one he had occupied, the regular
parlor car, the Flopper, a piteous spectacle, made his way--chairs
turned, the occupants craned their necks after the deformed and broken
creature, while smothered exclamations and little cries of sympathy from
the women followed him along. The Flopper's eyes never lifted from the
strip of carpet before him, but his lips moved.

"Gee!" he muttered. "Dis has de gape-wagon skun a mile. Wish I could