After Bob had found that no one was pursuing him, he decided that the first thing to do was to get away from New York, and with this purpose he headed for one of the ferries that would take him to the Jersey shore.
How far his fifteen dollars would carry him, he did not know, but he realized that it could not be any great distance, and he was trying to think of some plan by which he could obtain more funds, when he suddenly remembered the reporter who had taken such an interest in him.
"I'll go and find him," said Bob to himself. "He'll know about how much it costs to travel, and all such things, and perhaps he'll help me to get some work where I can earn more money. Anyway, I will be able to believe what he tells me, and to depend on his advice."
So simple a solution of his difficulties gave Bob new courage, until all at once it flashed upon him that he did not know the name of his benefactor, or where to find him.
As this thought occurred to him, Bob stopped still. However, his having thrown himself upon his own resources was sharpening his wits, and he suddenly exclaimed:
"I can find out at the police station. Perhaps he'll be there."
And though the boy was fully three miles away from the place where he had suffered such outrageous treatment, he turned his steps to retrace the distance.
When at length he was within sight of the grim building, the same fear of entering it that had made him refuse his guardian's command to fetch the basket of groceries, again seized him, and he paused.
"I won't go in," said Bob, shaking his head decidedly, "but I'll wait over by that pile of boxes on the opposite side of the street. Probably he'll be coming out before long."
Though this plan of Bob's would ordinarily have been effective, it happened that Foster had finished his work for the day even before he had paid his visit to the closed store of Len Dardus, and thus the boy was doomed to disappointment, although he stayed at his post of observation until dark began to fall.
With the garish flarings of the street lamps, Bob for the first time realized the true meaning of the step he had taken. Heretofore he hadalways possessed a home to which to go, unpleasant as it was, but now he had no place, and the contemplation of his loneliness caused him to grow very sober.
As the pangs of hunger were added to his general feeling of helplessness, for a moment he thought of returning to his guardian, but only for a moment. As he left the letter in his pocket and remembered the awful stigma his guardian had tried to cast upon his dead father, his pride arose.
"I will never go back there!" he told himself. "I have money in my pocket, and I can get something to eat. Then I'll go over to one of the stations in Jersey City and find some place to sleep. Perhaps there'll even be a train going out West to-night that will carry me part way to Oklahoma."
Coming forth from the pile of boxes from which he had sought in vain to catch a glimpse of his friend, the reporter, Bob walked up the street until he came to a restaurant, brilliantly lighted, and with a sign standing in the door from which the words: "Pork and Beans, 15 cents a plate," stared at him invitingly.
Dearly did Bob love pork and beans, but only occasionally had his guardian provided them, and then in such small quantities that the boy had never been able to eat all he wanted, and oftentimes had he promised himself that some day he would have his fill. Consequently, as he read the sign, he determined to gratify his desire, and timidly entered the restaurant, where there were stools in front of a high counter and tables along the wall, upon which stood an array of food that amazed him, accustomed, as he had been, to living on almost nothing.
Making his way diffidently to one of the tables, he sat down. In a moment a waitress, in what seemed to him a dazzlingly white and gorgeous dress, approached, and, with a smile, asked:
"What will you have?"
"Beans, please, and lots of them."
"And brown bread, too?" asked the waitress.
The thought of this with his beans had never entered Bob's head, and as it was suggested to him, he felt a great longing for it. Yet as no mention of it had been made on the sign that had attracted him to the restaurant, he feared it might be too expensive. But the more he thought of it, the more he wanted it, and finally he stammered:
"How much does it cost?"
"Five cents a slice."
"Then you may bring me two slices," replied the boy, laying emphasis upon the word "two."
"Coffee or tea?"
"I don't believe I'll have either," said Bob,feeling that his expenditure of twenty-five cents was all that he could afford.
Divining the reason of his refusal, the waitress smiled:
"You get either tea or coffee with the order. It doesn't cost any more."
"Then I'll have coffee," replied Bob.
And as the waitress went to bring his order, he again felt in his pocket to make sure he had the money with which to pay for his meal.
As the heaping plate of beans—for the waitress had not been scrimping in her measure—was set before Bob, together with the rich brown bread and coffee, it seemed to him that never had anything smelled quite so savory, and he began to eat as though he were famished.
Though the plate of beans had been heaping, so good did they taste to Bob, that he could not resist the temptation of ordering more, and calling the waitress to him, he asked:
"If I have a second plate, will it cost less?"
For a moment the girl was on the point of laughing at him, but the wistful seriousness of his face checked the outburst of merriment on her lips, and instead she replied, in a kindly tone:
"What's the matter, kid? Haven't you any money?"
"Oh, yes," Bob hastened to reassure her.
"Well, if you have money enough, what's to prevent your ordering as much as you want?"
For a moment Bob contemplated the question from this new viewpoint, but, unable to decide, observed:
"I don't just know as I ought to spend any more."
"Isn't the money yours?"
"Oh, yes, it's not that," rejoined Bob, and then, after hesitating a moment, he determined to leave the decision to this girl, whose face showed that she was kind and sympathetic, and he said:
"You see, it's this way: I'm going out West, and I haven't got much money, and I'm afraid I'll spend too much, because I don't just know how much it will take."
"Well, if I was you, I'd eat all I wanted while I had the money. If you've got to 'hobo' your way, there'll be times when you'll probably be without both food and money."
This reasoning struck Bob as being eminently practical, and he was on the point of ordering another plate, when the girl made it unnecessary by saying:
"I'll stake you to another plate, if you want the beans very much. It's just about time for me to eat my supper, and I will bring it over to your table and eat with you, and I'll make them think the beans are for me."
Bob wasn't quite sure whether such a plan was all right or not, but he had a healthy boy's appetite for beans, and so he made no objection.
"You are very kind," he said, when the second plate of the savory food was placed before him. "I suppose I shall be hungry sometimes before I get to Oklahoma, but I don't expect to 'hobo' it."
"Then how do you expect to get along? You say you haven't much money."
"I guess I don't just understand what it means to 'hobo' it," admitted Bob.
"No, I guess you don't. It's the name they give out West to travelling when you don't have money enough to pay your railroad fare, and have to beat your way, riding on freight trains."
As Bob heard this explanation of the term, his eyes sparkled with delight, and he said earnestly:
"I'm glad you told me about it. I'd never thought of trying to steal a ride on a freight train."
"For pity sake! How did you expect to get away out there?"
"Walk, unless I could earn money enough in one town to take me to another."
Bob's conversation, which showed such a remarkable ignorance of the world, especially in view of the fact that he was a New York boy, suggested to the waitress that perhaps he had run away from home.
Determined to find out, she banished the sympathetic smile from her face, and becoming very severe, leaned across the table and gazing straight into Bob's eyes, asked:
"Look a here, kid, you haven't run away from a good home, have you?"
The unexpectedness of this question took Bob by surprise. Under the searching gaze of the girl's eyes, he felt just as he had when the magistrate had glanced at him, and his voice trembled a little as he replied:
"No! Oh, no, indeed!"
But his manner was not convincing, and the girl continued her interrogations, but on a different tack.
"Your folks live in New York?"
"I haven't any."
"Then where have you been living?"
"With my guardian."
"What do you do?"
"I used to deliver groceries for him."
The stress Bob laid upon the word "used," led the girl to inquire:
"Did he fire you? Or what?"
"No. I left him."
"How long ago?"
"Just this afternoon."
The close questioning of the waitress was making Bob very uncomfortable, and he determined to tell her the real reason he had left, especially as she was so kind and seemed to know so much about traveling in the West. Having reached this decision, he told, with many hesitations, the story of his experiences.
With quick sympathy the girl listened, and, as he concluded, exclaimed tenderly:
"You poor kid! I'm sure glad you happened to drop in here. I've got a sister living out in Chicago, whose husband runs as far as Kansas City on a freight train. I'll give you a note to her, and her man will give you a lift, and probably he can arrange with some of the men he knows to carry you west from Kansas City."
"That will be very kind of you," returned Bob. "It seems as though strangers are kinder to me than people I've known all my life."
"That's often the way," exclaimed the girl, as she rose and went up to the desk in the front of the restaurant, where she obtained some paper, an envelope, and pen and ink, which she brought back to Bob's table.
It was evident from the slowness with which her self-imposed task advanced that the girl was more ready with her kind-hearted sympathy than with her pen. But at last the missive was finished, and she gave it to Bob.
"Don't forget that address: 'South 101st Street, on the left-hand corner, in a big, yellowbrick building.' It's on the side of the street nearest New York, and the name is Mrs. John Cameron."
Gratefully Bob took the letter, which he placed with the one written by his father, and as he did so he asked:
"I wonder how much it costs to get to Chicago?"
"Depends on how you travel. You can go in a plain car for about ten or eleven dollars. That is on one of the round-about railways, at cut rates. Or, you can pay between fifty and seventy-five dollars for a state-room."
"Oh, goody! If it only costs ten dollars, I can get out there all right, and still have some money left."
"I'm glad of that. Now, you sit here a few minutes, and I'll put up a lunch for you, and then you won't have to buy any food while you are on the train. They always charge a lot more on trains or in station restaurants than they ought to."
"Hadn't I better pay you now?" inquired Bob.
"No. You wait until I bring the box of lunch. The boss hasn't noticed how much you had to eat, and he'll think it's all on the check I will ring in."
"But that isn't exactly right, is it?" protested Bob.
"Well, I'll make it right with the boss."
So well were things working out for him, that it seemed to Bob that he must be in a dream, but the sight of the people and objects about him told him that it was indeed a reality.
In due course the kind waitress returned, bringing a sizeable box, tightly tied, which she placed on the table before him.
"Here, kiddo, I wish you good luck," she said. "I must leave you now, because I've got some more work to do."
"But you must tell me your name," insisted Bob, looking at her with his eyes filled with gratitude. "I'm coming back from the West a rich man, and I shall want to look you up and repay you for your kindness."
"I hope you strike it fine, kid," laughed the girl, "but I am afraid if you do, you'll never think of looking up Nellie Porter. Oh, by the way, do you know to which station to go?"
"No, I don't," admitted Bob.
"Well, if you want to get a plain car, you want to go over to Weehawken and buy your ticket over the West Shore railroad."
And giving Bob a check for his food, the girl smiled upon him pleasantly, and hurried away to wait upon some other people who had entered the restaurant.
By dint of questioning, Bob reached the Weehawken ferry and was soon on a boat, gliding through the dark waters of the river toward the Jersey shore.
Never had the boy been on a ferryboat at night, and the spectacle presented by the brilliantly lighted buildings filled him with wonder. Fortunate was it for him that he was so enthralled, for the boat had bumped into her slip and the people were rushing ashore before he had time to realize that he was leaving behind all he had ever known of a home.
Indeed, so absorbed was he in gazing about him, that it was not till one of the crew exclaimed: "Hey, kid, get ashore. You can't beat your way back on this boat," that he knew they had reached Weehawken.
"I'm not trying to beat my way," rejoined Bob. "I'm not going back to New York. I'm goingto Chicago—and then to Oklahoma," he added in a boyish attempt to impress the boatman with his importance.
"Well, you'd better hurry if you want to make the train for Chicago," returned the other. "This is the last boat before it starts. You'll have to hustle if you've any baggage, or are you travelling 'light'?"
But Bob had not waited to hear the comment upon his lack of equipment, and, before the words had left the mouth of the boatman, was running up the gangway and into the station.
The glare of the lights after the darkness of the river and the many people scurrying to and fro, together with the porters and trainmen calling and shouting, bewildered the lad who had never been so far away from home before, and he stood in the middle of the station as though dazed.
Noticing the woe-begone figure, the station policeman walked over to where Bob was standing.
"What's the matter, kid? Looking for some one?"
"No. I'm going away, to Chicago. I wish you'd tell me where to go to get a chair car."
"Not running away from home, are you?" inquired the official, scanning Bob's face searchingly.
This constant suggestion that he was running away angered the boy, and he determined to put an end to it.
"No, I'm not," he retorted impatiently. "I'm going out West to become a ranchman, though I don't see why it is any of your business. The man on the boat told me I would have to hurry if I was going to catch my train."
"Got any money?" inquired the policeman, ignoring the boy's manner.
"Surely." And Bob drew forth the precious ten dollars he had managed to save from the pittance his guardian had paid him and all that remained from the money the magistrate had given him.
"All right. Come with me. I'll show you," responded the official, assured by the sight of the money that Bob was not trying to steal a ride on the train.
Quickly the two made their way to the ticket office.
"Ticket for this youngster," announced the policeman.
"Where to?" asked the agent.
"Chicago, in a chair car," answered Bob.
"'Leven thirty," returned the man in the ticket office, turning to his rack and taking down a long strip of paper, which he stamped rapidly.
With trembling fingers, Bob counted out themoney, and shoved it through the opening in the window.
"Correct," muttered the agent, as he counted the roll of bills. "Now hurry, or you won't get your train."
As Bob received the amazingly long ticket, his breast swelled with pride. Its possession meant the beginning of his long-cherished dream, and he started to study it, when the voice of the officer warned him:
"Come this way, kid. Go through gate No. 3. You can read your ticket when you get on the train; you'll have time enough before you reach Chicago. Good luck on your ranch," he added in a kindly banter.
But Bob had no time to reply, for the trainmen were already shouting their "All aboard for Chicago," and it was only by running down the platform that he was able to get on a car just as the wheels began to move.
The car in which Bob found himself was upholstered in dark green, and the woodwork was of polished mahogany. Never had he seen anything so magnificent, and as he sank into a high-back seat, he uttered a sigh of contentment.
But he was not allowed to enjoy his luxury long.
While he was gazing with wide-staring eyes at everything about him, a colored porter enteredthe car and languidly glanced from one to another of the occupants, as though making a mental calculation of the tips he would receive, when his eyes fell on the poorly-clad figure of Bob, holding his box of lunch on his knees.
With an exclamation of surprise, the porter hastened to where the lad was sitting.
"What you-all doin' in hyar?" he demanded harshly.
The tone in which the question was asked now caused the other passengers, who had hitherto been too busy getting themselves comfortably settled to notice Bob, to turn their gaze upon him.
"I'm going to Chicago," returned Bob.
But the hostile look on the porter's face scared him, and he could not help a tremor that crept into his voice as he made his reply.
"Whar's yer ticket?" snarled the negro.
Reaching into his pocket, Bob drew forth the long strip of paper and presented it to the officious porter.
"The ticket's all right," grunted the man. "Now, whar's youah parlah cyar ticket?"
"My what?" asked Bob.
"Youah parlah cyar ticket."
"That's all the ticket I have," returned Bob. "Isn't that enough? I told the man I wanted a chair-car ticket, and that's what he gave me."
"Huh! I thought so. This ain't no chair cyar.This is a parlah cyar. The cyar you-all want is up front, four cyars ahead. Now get out of hyar lively."
"But I can't get out while the train's going," protested Bob. "I might get hurt, and—and besides, I want to go to Chicago, and if I get off I'll lose my train."
And in Bob's voice, as he pictured himself in his mind left beside the railroad tracks in a strange place and at night, there was a plaintive appeal.
"You don't have to git off ther train," snarled the porter. "All you gotta do is to walk right fru ther other cyars, three of 'em, mind you, and you'll find your chair cyar. The idea of you-all getting into a parlah cyar with a chair-cyar ticket."
Reassured by the information that it would be unnecessary for him to leave the train in order to reach the proper car, Bob rose from the soft and luxurious seat slowly.
"Come, hurry," growled the porter, making a move as though to seize Bob by the arm and drag him from the car.
But before he could do so, the stern voice of an elderly and well-dressed man, who was occupying the second seat ahead, exclaimed:
"Porter, can't you see this boy is unaccustomedto travelling? Why don't you show him the way to the chair car?"
"What,metake that crittur fru three coaches? It's——"
But the negro was not given the opportunity to finish.
Bumping into the porter so that he knocked him to one side, the man who had taken the negro to task for his treatment of Bob exclaimed:
"ThenIwill show him the way. Come, son."
And he held out his hand, while all anger had disappeared from his face, as he looked at Bob kindly.
"My name is Bob Chester," said the boy, taking the outstretched hand and shaking it.
"And mine is Horace Perkins," returned the elder man, unable to restrain a smile as he thought of the unceremonious introduction to himself, who practically owned the road. "I am sorry you should have had so unpleasant an experience."
And as the railroad magnate and the poorly-clad boy passed from sight of those in the car, the porter moaned:
"Oh, lawdy, lawdy! Ah sho has done got mahself in a mess."
And the comments of the other passengers, as they prophesied the punishment the railroad president would inflict on his uncivil employee, told him that they agreed with his opinion thoroughly.
As Bob and his distinguished guide reached the chair car, the latter beckoned to the brakeman and said:
"I am Mr. Perkins. I presume you know that I am the president of this road. I want you to keep an eye on this boy. He isn't accustomed to travelling. He'll probably need something to eat to-morrow, so either take him into one of the railroad restaurants, or bring him some lunch into the car. Here's some money for his meals."
But before his benefactor could withdraw his hand from his pocket, Bob exclaimed:
"I have my lunch with me, right here in this box, Mr. Perkins. I'm just as much obliged to you, though."
A moment the railroad president hesitated, then realizing from the look on Bob's face that he would give offense should he press his gift, he smiled and said:
"All right, son. Just as you wish. But I want you to be my guest at breakfast in the morning."
And again shaking hands with Bob, Mr. Perkins left the car.
After the railroad president had left the car, the brakeman found a chair for Bob, and showed him how to work its mechanism so that he could drop it back when he wished to go to sleep, all the while eyeing the poorly-dressed lad with evident curiosity, which finally he could no longer restrain, and he asked:
"Have you known Mr. Perkins long?"
"No," replied Bob. "I only met him to-night."
"You must have made a hit with him."
"No. I just think he is very kind."
"Huh! That's a new one. You're the first one that ever called old Perkins kind. If you could hear some of the men talk about how he has treated them, you wouldn't think he was so kind."
"I don't know about that. I only know he was very kind to me," returned Bob, "and I like him. If his men were honest and square with him, I think he would be with them."
The approach of the train to a station, necessitating the member of the train crew going about his duty, prevented him from plying Bob further with questions, much to the latter's relief.
Placing his box of lunch on the floor beside him, Bob leaned back in his chair, partially closed his eyes, and gazed about him at the other passengers. But there was none who interested him, and he soon turned his mind to the contemplation of his position.
It was with difficulty that he could realize that he was actually on his way to the great West. But the steady motion of the train, the whirl of the wheels, and the occasional blast of the engine's whistle, told him that he was not dreaming, and after enjoying for a while the sensation of travelling he began to think about what he should do when he reached Chicago.
He had read much of the enormous area the city covered, and he wondered if he would have any difficulty in finding the home of the woman whose husband was to form such a necessary link in his travelling arrangements.
"Suppose she shouldn't be at home, or suppose Mr. Cameron doesn't feel like helping me? I guess under those circumstances it would be necessary for me to get a job somewhere. But I won't be an errand boy in a grocery store," he promised himself. But with the custom of looking only on the bright side of things, which is a fortunate habit of youth, he began to think of the good times he would have riding the horses on the plains, and of watching the cowboys as they roped the steers and branded them. And his fancy even pictured himself as a successful participant in various nerve-stirring contests.
"I may be from the East, but I won't let them call me a tenderfoot," Bob exclaimed earnestly; "and I'll try and get on the right side of them, so they won't play tricks on me."
Bob's idea of cowboys had been gathered from his reading of many stories of life on the plains, and was, therefore, rather vague. And it was while holding imaginary conversations with ranchmen conjured from his brain, that his body, wearied by the unusual events through which he had passed, grew quiet, and he finally dropped off to sleep.
The motion of the train and frequent stops affected him not at all, and as soundly as though he were in the bed at the rear of the grocer's shop, he slept through the night.
Mindful of Mr. Perkins' request that he look after Bob, the brakeman brought a coat with which he covered the boy, as the chill of night settled on the car, and several times as he passed he tucked it about Bob, when his moving had caused it to slide to the floor.
About seven o'clock in the morning the trainman, after having waited in vain for Bob to wake of his own accord, shook him gently by the shoulder, exclaiming:
"Come, son, it's time you were up and doing, if you are going to have breakfast with the 'old man.' He is liable to send in any time for you now, and after you have known him as long as I have, you'll learn that he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"But where am I going to wash my face and hands? Doesn't the train stop at the station?"
At this naïve question, the brakeman looked at Bob for a moment, and then chuckling heartily to himself, exclaimed:
"Say, kid, are you trying to jolly me, or have you been kept in a glass cage all your life? Don't you know that they have washrooms on the trains?"
"No. This is the first time I have ever taken a journey on a train in my life."
"Where are you going?"
"To Chicago, first, and then out to Oklahoma."
"Well, that's far enough, so that if you don't know anything about travelling now, you will when you get there. What part of Oklahoma are you going to?"
"I don't just know exactly," and then, his breast swelling with pride, he continued: "I'mgoing on a ranch, but I haven't decided quite yet where."
"Folks live out there? Going to friends?"
"No."
"Well, I suppose you know your own business, but taking it all in all, if I was you, I think I'd stay East among people I knew, and whose ways I was used to."
"I don't believe you would if you were me," said Bob, and then tiring of the questioning, he said: "I thought you were going to show me the washroom. I want to be ready when Mr. Perkins sends for me."
Smiling at the manner in which Bob changed the conversation, the brakeman led him to the lavatory, and soon Bob had made his very primitive toilet.
In his endeavor to make himself as presentable as possible, he had washed and wiped his face so vigorously that it almost shone. And no sooner had he finished the task than the brakeman put his head in the door, and said:
"All ready, kid? Mr. Perkins has sent for you."
Going out into the car, Bob saw a negro clad in a suit of immaculate linen.
"Is you Mr. Chester?" asked the darky, restraining the smile Bob's appearance produced.
"My name's Bob Chester, if that's what you mean," returned the boy.
"Then you'se to come with me to the dining-car, where Mr. Perkins is waiting for you."
Without more delay, the negro led the way.
Unmindful of the glances indicative of curiosity that were cast at him, Bob followed his guide into the dining-car.
As the railroad president saw his youthful guest approach, he arose, and with punctilious ceremony shook Bob's hand, murmuring:
"I hope you slept well, Bob?"
"Very, thank you. I don't think I should have been awake now, if the brakeman hadn't called me. He was very kind to me."
"I'm glad of that," smiled the official. "What would you like to eat?"
"Most anything, thank you."
"Then suppose you let me order for you."
This suggestion brought great relief to Bob, and he listened with wide eyes as he heard the order for strawberries, bacon and eggs, buckwheat cakes, maple syrup and coffee.
"Does that selection meet with your approval?" smiled the railroad president.
"Indeed it does, sir! Next to beans, I like buckwheat cakes."
"I guess all boys do. I know my sons at home are very fond of them."
"DOES THAT SELECTION MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL?" SMILED THE PRESIDENT
"DOES THAT SELECTION MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL?" SMILED THE PRESIDENTBob Chester's GritPage 71
Bob's enjoyment of his breakfast was so evident that it was almost pathetic. And as Mr. Perkins watched him eat, he wondered what the boy's story could be, and from having taken merely a passing interest in him, his desire to do something for him became keen.
Under the discreet guidance of the railroad president, Bob was led to tell him of his life and of the experiences of the day before that had resulted in the severing of all ties, and the taking of so radical a step as the trip to the West.
As he listened to the narrative, his mind reverted to his own boys at home, surrounded by every luxury that wealth and affection could give them, and he wondered if, were either of them placed in Bob's circumstances, they would have the courage to do as he had done.
When Bob had finished his story, Mr. Perkins sat in silence for several minutes, evidently in deep thought.
"I think you have chosen the wisest course, Bob," he finally said. "The West is a great country, and you have qualities about you that I think will bring you success. Of course, you will probably be obliged to stand a good many hard knocks, but they won't hurt you, my boy. Hard knocks are good for any man. The only thing to be careful about is that they do not sour youand cause you to feel anger and hatred against your fellows.
"I suppose you know, of course, that the West, just like any other part of the world, contains a lot of bad men as well as good—only out West the bad men are more noticeable because they act more openly, gambling and drinking and fighting.
"You must be very careful whom you choose for your companions. If you make up your mind to treat every one politely and with kindness, you will soon be able to determine who are the ones whose friendship is worth having, and whom to avoid. But if you wish to succeed, you must keep away from the saloons and gambling dives.
"This may seem a good deal of a lecture to you, but if you follow my advice, some day you will thank me for giving it to you. And now, what do you propose to do, in case you don't find Mrs. Cameron? You know in big cities people often move, and it may be some time since her sister saw her. Then again, perhaps her husband won't prove very accommodating."
"I've thought of that, Mr. Perkins. If I can't find them, I shall try to get some work somewhere, so that I can earn money enough to pay my fare from Chicago."
"You'll succeed all right, Bob," said the railroad president. "You have the right spirit ofgrit. But I have a plan which will do away with the necessity of depending upon the good nature of Mrs. Cameron or her husband."
And taking one of his cards from his pocket, Mr. Perkins wrote several words on it, and then handed it to Bob.
"If you'll take this card to the offices of the Grand Pacific, which you will find in the building directly across from the station where we arrive in Chicago, they will give you a pass, which will carry you to any part of Oklahoma you desire to go. I want you to accept it as a present from me. You can tell them to what place to make it out, and as it will take many hours to reach your destination, I want you to accept this money, so that you can buy your food." And he handed Bob a twenty-dollar bill. "If you are careful, you will have something left when you reach that part of Oklahoma to which you decide to go."
Before Bob could recover sufficiently from his surprise to express his thanks, Mr. Perkins had arisen, and saying that it was necessary for him to get off the train at the next station, went back to his car, leaving Bob in contemplation of his pass and money.
Placing in his pocket the money and the precious piece of pasteboard which possessed the magic power of procuring for him transportation to the land of his dreams, Bob rose from the breakfast-table and made his way back to his chair.
As the train stopped at one station after another, people kept getting aboard, and soon the car in which Bob was riding was filled to its capacity.
Having nothing better to do, the lad amused himself by studying each new passenger, and he was amusing himself in trying to assign them to their proper vocations, when he was attracted to the man who came in and took the seat directly in front of him.
Tall and inordinately thin, the man's clothes seemed simply to hang from his shoulders. His hair, of a curious rusty gray, seemed to stick out from under the faded straw hat, and hiswhole appearance suggested nothing so much as a scarecrow.
Despite the man's ungainly appearance, however, his face was one that would attract and hold attention. So thin was it that it seemed as though the cheek bones would any minute pierce the bronzed skin, and from under bushy eyebrows two restless black eyes glistened.
Like Bob, this man surveyed his fellow passengers, giving them, however, only a momentary glance, until his eyes rested upon Bob, and upon him they lingered, glancing him over from head to foot, and then dropping to the lunch-box which was on the floor.
During this inspection of himself, Bob had also been examining the man more closely, and had discovered that his forehead was marked with a deep scar.
"You don't happen to have any lunch in that box, do you, that you would be willing to sell me?" asked the stranger. "I didn't have time to get any before I started. In fact, I came mighty near losing the train as it was, and there won't be any station where I can get anything before noon."
"Why, yes," replied Bob; "that is, I have some lunch. But I won't sell it to you. You are welcome to some of it, if you would like it."
How the man had been able to divine that hispackage contained food, Bob could not understand. But had the boy been as keen an observer as the stranger, he would have noticed that the paper on one end of the box was saturated with grease, causing the obvious inference that some sort of food was wrapped up inside.
"I don't like to take your grub for nothing, son," returned the other, "but I sure am hungry. I have always made it a rule never to accept anything from any one without giving something in return. So I tell you what I'll do. If you're sure you won't accept any money, and will give me a bite, when the train stops for dinner, I'll pay for whatever you want to eat."
"That seems fair," returned Bob, "but I should be just as willing to give you some, even if you didn't return it."
While Bob had been speaking, he had picked up the box, broken the string, unwrapped the paper and opened it, after which he held it out to the stranger, saying:
"Help yourself."
To Bob's surprise, the man accepted the invitation literally—and took the whole box, which he rested on his knee. Though it contained cake and pie, hard-boiled eggs, and several sandwiches, the stranger exercised no choice of selection, but began at one end of the box and ate everything just as it came.
Naturally Bob had supposed that the man would eat possibly only a couple of eggs and one or two sandwiches, with perhaps even a piece of cake or a piece of pie. But as he saw one piece of food disappearing after another, and remembered that the stranger had asked only for a bite, he wondered what he would require to make a full meal.
As the last piece of food was devoured, the man reached down, put the cover on the box, folded the paper, wrapped up the box and set it on the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then exclaimed:
"My, but that went to the right spot! I sure was hungry."
"Yes, I guess you were," assented Bob, a bit ruefully, for he had expected to have at least a portion of the food, put up for him by the kind waitress, to eat during the day.
The stranger, however, ignored the insinuation in Bob's tone, and proceeded to talk with him.
"Going far?" he asked.
"Yes, to Chicago."
"That's good. So am I. I'm glad to have some one to talk to. It makes the time pass quicker. Been visiting in the East?"
"No. I've always lived in New York."
"Going to Chicago on a visit?"
"Not exactly. I'm going to call on some friends, and then go on to Oklahoma."
The mention of Oklahoma roused the stranger to immediate interest.
"You don't say! To what part?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Going to Oklahoma, and you don't know to what part?" repeated the man in surprise.
"I'm going on a ranch somewhere. I was thinking I'd get a map when I got to Chicago, and decide just where."
"Well, if that don't beat anything I ever heard!"
The intonation which the man gave to his words was such that Bob felt that he must give some explanation of his indecision, and he returned:
"You see, I'm going to be a cowboy first, and then a ranch owner, and I didn't want to decide where to go until I could find out where I would have the best chance."
"Well, it certainly is fortunate that fate led me to get into this car of all on the train. I can tell you just the place for you to go."
"Have you ever been to Oklahoma?" inquired Bob.
"Have I ever been there? Well, son, I was there off and on for about ten years, when the government first opened up the land, and youcould travel for miles without seeing anything but Injuns."
The knowledge that his companion was familiar with Oklahoma set Bob's heart beating rapidly, and the thought that he could gather much useful information from this peculiar man caused him to forget all annoyance over the loss of his lunch.
"Then you've really seen a live Indian?" asked Bob, his eyes big with excitement.
"I seen too many of the critters. See that scar?"
And he tapped his forehead with one of his long fingers.
"Yes," said Bob eagerly.
"Well, it was an Injun gave me that; Flying Horse, they called him."
At the memory of what had evidently been an exciting adventure, the man lapsed into silence, as though he were re-enacting the events in his mind.
To Bob his silence was tantalizing. He longed to hear of the experience, and yet he hesitated to ask point-blank. His interest was so keen, however, that he could not restrain himself entirely, and he squirmed restively in his chair.
The movement had the effect of recalling the man from his memories, and gazing at the lad's eager face, his own broke into a smile, as he said:
"I suppose you'd like to know how it happened?"
"Indeed I should."
"I was punching cows for an old fellow called Sam Ford; a man so mean you could pull the pith out of a horse-hair and then put his soul inside, and it would rattle.
"But this story don't concern old Sam, except in so far as I was working for him. He'd got together a fine bunch of cattle. Where he got 'em, no one ever knew exactly, and in them days it wasn't what you'd call healthy to ask questions. Indeed, I've seen many a perfectly healthy man took off sudden, just because he got inquisitive about su'thin', that wasn't none of his business in the first place. But that's neither here nor there. Sam had the cattle, and I was punchin' for him.
"One day Sam come to me and said he wanted me to ride over to a creek near what is now the town of Fairfax, and watch a bunch of about thirty head he told me he just bought. There was a pack of Crow Injuns that we knew was somewhere around there. But in them days it was the same with working for a man as it was about asking questions. If he told you to do anything, it was up to you to do it, or stand the consequences. So I saddled a flea-bitten pinto and set out, though I must say I wasn't particularly keen on going. It had been rumored that Samhad got some of his cattle from the Injuns, and we'd always expected that if Sam ever did die—of which we had our doubts, because he was so mean—that it would be at the hand of a redskin.
"After riding about thirty mile, I come to the cattle all right, and they was sure a fine bunch. The place where Sam had left them was filled with fine grazing grass, and there was a 'drink' near-by, so's I got to feeling a little better, for I'd been afraid I was going to have some trouble in locating water. Sam had said he'd come up in three or four days, and we'd drive 'em back to where we had the main herd.
"The grass was so rich that a baby could have looked after them cattle; they stayed so close, and I was taking things easy most of the time, lying on my back and smoking.
"On the second night it was cloudy, and I had built a little fire, before which I curled up and went to sleep.
"How long I'd been asleep, I don't know. But I do know that I was suddenly wakened by feeling something sharp drawn across my forehead.
"Opening my eyes, I saw a face, hideous in white and yellow paint, peering into mine.
"Fortunately, I still had my six-shooters on me, and being pretty handy with them, it didn't take me long to put an end to Mr. Injun.
"Whether there was more than one buck'round, I didn't know. But I'd no sooner got to my feet than I found out, for on all sides of me the air was split with their awful yells.
"Dropping to my knees, I crawled into the long grass as fast as I could, and the only thing that saved me was because they had been busy with the cattle, and didn't know where I was.
"After they'd hunted for me a while, they rounded up the critters, gathered in my pinto, and moved away.
"Just as soon as I heard 'em going I lit out in the opposite direction, and hoofed it back to Sam's."
As the stranger recounted this exciting adventure, Bob's eyes grew larger and larger, and his mouth gaped in wonder. Many a time had he read in story-books of similar attacks by Indians, but the thought that he was actually gazing at a man who had been through such an ordeal seemed too delightful to be true. And so reverentially admiring was his manner toward his travelling companion that the other couldn't but smile good-naturedly.
"Where did you say that place was?" inquired Bob, after a silence of many minutes, as he retold to himself the story of the scar and pictured the scene before his mind's eye.
"Fairfax."
"What part of the state is that?"
"It's about the middle, as east and west goes, but nearer the northern than the southern border."
"Are there—are there any ranches near Fairfax now, do you suppose?"
"I reckon so, though it's more than seven years since I came East."
"Aren't you ever going back there?" inquired Bob, in a tone which said plainly that it was beyond his understanding how a man could give up life on a ranch and settle down to the very ordinary, prosaic life of the East.
For a moment the man looked at Bob searchingly, and then replied:
"I reckon that it's better for my health here in the East."
But the significance of this remark was lost on Bob. For a few minutes he was silent, the expression on his face, however, indicating that he was thinking earnestly, and at last the cause of his deliberation was explained in his question:
"Do you think there are any Indians around Fairfax now?"
"Not the kind there was in the early days when I was out there. The government has tried to make them like white people, and now the Injuns that you would find are either lazy, or they have deteriorated into half-breeds. Once in a while some of the bucks go on a rampage, but not very often."
"I think I'll go to Fairfax," announced Bob after another period of deliberation. "You don't know any one out there with whom you think I could get in to work, do you?"
"No, I can't say as I do, and besides a recommendation from me wouldn't help you any. But I think so long as you have no particular section of the state in mind, that Fairfax would be as good as any."
Bob lost no time in taking advantage of the opportunity afforded by his companion for asking him about the customs of the cowboys and life on a ranch in general, and many were the valuable pointers the stranger gave him, some of which Bob afterwards remembered, but more of which he forgot.
Between Bob's inquiries and the stories which his travelling companion narrated, the morning passed quickly, and what had loomed before the boy as long and dreary hours, seemed but a minute, so entertaining was the stranger.
True to his word, when the train pulled into the station where the stop was made for those passengers who desired to get lunch, the stranger insisted upon Bob getting out and eating with him. And Bob found that the man's appetite was just as keen when he was paying for his food, as when he was eating that provided by others.
After the return to the car, the interesting stories were resumed, and Bob had little opportunity to notice the region through which he was passing, new and unusual to him as was its scenery, save when his attention was called to some striking feature by his companion.
"It won't be long now before we reach Chicago," remarked the man.
"No, I suppose not," admitted Bob with a sigh. "I only wish you were going out to Fairfax with me."
"Oh, well, you'll find, more likely than not, that some of the passengers on the train you take are bound for Oklahoma, and they will probably be able to afford you more assistance and information than I."
The suggestion made by Bob about returning to Oklahoma seemed to make a deep impression upon the stranger, and he lapsed into silence from which he only roused himself after the train had pulled into the station at Chicago, when he jumped up suddenly, grabbed Bob by the shoulder, shook him with a gentle roughness, and murmured:
"Good luck to you, boy, and whatever you do, be straight," and rushed from the car, leaving Bob bewildered by the abruptness of his departure.
Despite the evident mystery which hung over his travelling companion, Bob had felt more at ease when he was with him, and it was with a sense of loss that he saw him leave the car, for the boy had hoped that he would accompany him to the railway offices while he got his pass, andhe had even dared to think he might be able to persuade him to make the visit to Mrs. Cameron with him.
But the man's departure had shattered his hopes, and Bob, with a feeling of great loneliness, mechanically followed the other passengers from the car out upon the wide platform. His feeling of isolation was made even more poignant by the hearty greetings which sounded all around him, as one after another of the people who had arrived on the same train were met by their friends or families.
Following the crowd, he passed through the station out onto the sidewalk. There he stood for a moment, searching the windows of the buildings across the street for the name of the railway offices to which Mr. Perkins had directed him.
With little difficulty he spied great gilt letters which formed the words "Grand Pacific Railway," and picking his way carefully through the throng of carriages, automobiles and trucks, which were passing up and down the street, he soon reached the building, and was on the way to the offices in the elevator.
Entering one of the doors, he beheld several handsomely polished desks, at which busy men were seated.
Who the proper person was to whom to present his card for a pass, Bob did not know, but after scrutinizing the faces of the various men in the office, he selected one who seemed kind and pleasant, and was making his way toward him, when he was confronted by a boy several inches smaller than he was, clad in a green uniform trimmed with gold braid, who demanded insolently:
"Here, you! Where do you think you are going? Who do you want to see?"
"I don't know exactly."
During this interchange of words, the office-boy had been scanning Bob and his threadbare clothes contemptuously. And at the lad's reply, he laughed outright, adding:
"Well, if you don't know who you want to see, you can't come in here."
"But I want to get a pass for Fairfax, Oklahoma," protested Bob.
"Youget a pass! Say, are you crazy? Only the general managers and the other high officers travel on passes."
"But Mr. Perkins told me to come here," asserted Bob.
To what lengths this determination of the office-boy to get rid of Bob would have gone there is no knowing, for the official whose desk was nearest the railing in front of which Bob stoodhad been attracted by the unusual occurrence, and as he heard Mr. Perkins' name spoken, he got up, and beckoning to Bob, asked:
"What did you say about Mr. Perkins?"
"I said he told me to come here to get a pass to Fairfax, Oklahoma. That is, he didn't say Fairfax," added Bob truthfully, "he just said I was to get it to any place in Oklahoma where I wanted to go, and I have decided I want to go to Fairfax."
"What is your name?"
"Bob Chester."
"Well, Mr. Perkins has sent us no instructions for issuing you a pass, and until he does, we cannot do anything for you."
And turning on his heel the man walked back to his desk, while the office-boy grinned in delight.
Bob, however, was not to be disposed of so easily, and putting his hand in his pocket, he drew out the card given him by the railroad president, and said:
"But Mr. Perkins gave me instructions to give to you."
The man who had left his desk before paid no attention to Bob's remark, however, and the boy was wondering if, after all, the card would be of no service to him when suddenly the dooropened and in walked the porter who had drawn upon himself the anger of the railroad president, the night before, by his treatment of Bob.
As the darky entered, one of the clerks happened to be passing the rail, and he exclaimed:
"Well, Thomas Jefferson, what do you want here?"
"Ah come to get my pay. Ah done been discharged."
"You discharged?" repeated the other incredulously.
"That's what, and by the 'old man' hisself."
"Why?"
"For not treating this hyar gemmen wid de respec' Mr. Perkins thought I ought to when he set hisself down in my parlah cyar, when his ticket done call for the chair cyar."
The tone in which the porter made his reply was so loud that no one in the office could fail to hear it, and as the officials had already received instructions by wire to pay off the darky in full upon his arrival, when they learned that the shabbily-clad boy standing before the rail was the cause of the discharge, they evinced a very lively interest in him.
"The kid was just up here trying to get a pass he said Mr. Perkins had told him to call for," returned the man who had dismissed Bob so abruptly.
"If the gemmen says so, den you'd better give it to him, if you-all don't want to get what Ah got."
Deeming the time had come for again calling attention to his card, Bob exclaimed:
"Mr. Perkins told me I was to present this, when I asked for the pass."
Reaching out his hand for the piece of pasteboard, the man who had refused him before, scanned it hurriedly, and said:
"You should have given me this in the first place. You see, we don't issue many passes now, and we are obliged to be very careful." And, calling to one of his clerks, he gave him instructions for making out the pass to Fairfax, after having learned from Bob that that was the destination to which he wished to go.
"You'd better sit down," said the official, "because it will take a few minutes to get it ready."
Bob was not thinking of himself, however. The idea troubled him of the porter's being discharged on his account, and after a few moments' deliberation, he called to the man who had given the instructions for the writing of his pass, and asked:
"Do you think if I should write a note to Mr. Perkins, that he would change his mind about discharging this man? I don't like to think he should have got into trouble on my account. Yousee, I don't know much about travelling, and I didn't know a parlor car from a chair car."
Surprised at this consideration for a fellow in a boy so young, the official smiled as he replied:
"I shouldn't be surprised if Mr. Perkins would think about it, if you asked him. He seems to have taken a great fancy to you."
"Then if you will give me a piece of paper, I will write to him."
And when the writing material was provided, Bob, in his crude, boyish hand, wrote: