Before Durand had set himself to meet the plunge he found himself
flying through space. The gambler caught at the rail, missed it,
landed on the cinders beside the roadbed, was flung instantly from his
feet, and rolled over and over down an incline to a muddy gully.

Clay, hanging to the brass railing, leaned out and looked back. Durand
had staggered to his feet, plastered with mud from head to knees, and
was shaking furiously a fist at him. The face of the man was venomous
with rage.

The cowpuncher waved a debonair hand and mounted the steps again. The
porter was standing in the vestibule looking at him with amazement.

"You throwed a man off'n this train, mistah," he charged.

"So I did," admitted Clay, and to save his life he could not keep from
smiling.

The porter sputtered. This beat anything in his previous experience.
"But--but--it ain't allowed to open up the cah. Was you-all havin'
trouble?"

"No trouble a-tall. He bet me a cigar I couldn't put him off."

Clay palmed a dollar and handed it to the porter as he passed into the
car. The eyes of that outraged official rolled after him. The book of
rules did not say anything about wrestling-matches in the vestibule.
Besides, it happened that Durand had called him down sharply not an
hour before. He decided to brush off his passengers and forget what he
had seen.