pass de hat--I'd make de killin' of me young life. Pipe de hydrogen hair
on de gran'mother wid de sparkler on her thumb an' weeps in her eyes,
an' look at de guy wid de yellow gloves rolled back on his wrists to
heighten de intelligint look on his face, dat she's kiddin'--I could
play dem to a fare-thee-well if I only had de chanst. Oh, gee!"--the
Flopper sighed--"an' I got to let it go!"

With regret still poignantly affecting him, the Flopper passed on into
the private car, and the porter ushered him into a sort of combination
observation and sitting-room compartment. The Flopper's eyes lifted and
made a quick, comprehensive tour of his surroundings. The young woman
who had spoken to him on the platform was reclining on a couch; the
nurse sat on the foot of the couch; and the man was tilted back in an
armchair against the window.

The young woman raised herself to a sitting posture and held out her
hand.

"I am Mrs. Thornton," she said, with a smile. "This is my husband, and
this is Miss Harvey, my nurse. It was very good of you to come, Mr.--?"
she paused invitingly.

"Coogan," supplied the Flopper. "Michael Coogan."

"Let me offer you a chair, Mr. Coogan," said Thornton, a little
ironically, pushing one toward the Flopper. "Or would you be more
comfortable on the floor?"

The Flopper's eyelids fell--covering a quick, ugly glint.