"Chucked it out! what do you mean? When?"

"At the last station."

The guard blew his whistle, and the other jumped into the carriage.

"I thought you'd got out there for good," explained Mike. "I'm awfully
sorry."

"Where _is_ the bag?"

"On the platform at the last station. It hit a porter."

Against his will, for he wished to treat the matter with fitting
solemnity, Mike grinned at the recollection. The look on Porter
Robinson's face as the bag took him in the small of the back had been
funny, though not intentionally so.

The bereaved owner disapproved of this levity; and said as much.

"Don't _grin_, you little beast," he shouted. "There's nothing to
laugh at. You go chucking bags that don't belong to you out of the
window, and then you have the frightful cheek to grin about it."

"It wasn't that," said Mike hurriedly. "Only the porter looked awfully
funny when it hit him."

"Dash the porter! What's going to happen about my bag? I can't get out
for half a second to buy a magazine without your flinging my things
about the platform. What you want is a frightful kicking."