disappearing train; he called upon high heaven to destroy utterly the
race of negro porters; he threatened terrible reprisals against a
delinquent railroad company; he seized upon a bewildered station agent
over whom he poured his troubles in one gush; and he lifted up his voice
and wept--literally wept! This to the vast enjoyment of my friends.

"What ails the small party?" asked Windy Bill coming up.

"He's lost the family jewels!" "The papers are missing." "Sandy here
(meaning me) won't give him his bottle and it's past feeding time."
"Sandy's took away his stick of candy and won't give it back." "The
little son-of-a-gun's just remembered that he give the nigger porter two
bits," were some of the replies he got.

On the general principle of "never start anything you can't finish," I
managed to quell the disturbance; I got a description of the bag, and
arranged to have it wired for at the next station. On receiving the news
that it could not possibly be returned before the following morning, my
protégé showed signs of another outburst. To prevent it I took him
firmly by the arm and led him across to McGrue's. He was shivering as
though from a violent chill.

The multitude trailed interestedly after; but I took my man into one of
McGrue's private rooms and firmly closed the door.

"Put that under your belt," I invited, pouring him a half tumbler of
McGrue's best, "and pull yourself together."

He smelled it.