“Mr. who?”

“Mr. Sharpman, the lawyer from Scranton.”

“No, I don’t know him,—­why?”

“Oh, I didn’t know but you might know w’ether he’d gone home or not; but, of course, if you don’t know ’im you couldn’t tell.”

“No, I don’t know anything about him,” said the man, stretching himself on the bench for a nap.

Ralph thought he would wait.  Indeed, there was nothing better for him to do.  It was warm here, and he had a seat, and he knew of no other place in the city where he could be so comfortable.  The clock on the wall informed him that it was eight in the evening.  He began to feel hungry.  He could see, through a half-opened door, the tempting array of food on the lunch-counter in another room; but he knew that he could get none, and he tried not to think of eating.  It was very quiet now in the waiting-room, and it was not very long before Ralph fell to dozing and dreaming.  He dreamed that he was somewhere in deep distress, and that his mother came, looking for him, but unable to see him; that she passed so close to him he put out his hand and touched her; that he tried to speak to her and could not, and so, unaware of his presence, she went on, leaving him alone in his misery.

The noise of persons coming into the room awoke him, finally, and he sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around him.  He saw, by the clock on the wall, that it was nearly train time.  The escaping steam from the waiting engine could already be heard outside.  People were buying tickets and making their way hurriedly to the platform; but, among all those who came in and went out, Ralph could not discover the familiar face and figure of Sharpman, nor, indeed, could he see any one whom he knew.

After the passengers had all gone out, the door-keeper called Ralph to him.

“Find your man?” he asked.

“Do you mean Mr. Sharpman?”

“Yes.”

“No, he didn’t come in.  I guess he went home before.”

The door-keeper paused and looked thoughtful.  Finally he said:—­

“You want to go to Scranton?”

“Yes, that’s where I live.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what you do.  You git onto that train, and when Jim Coleman—­he’s the conductor—­when he comes around to punch your ticket, you tell him I said you were to be passed.  Now you’ll have to hurry; run!”

The kind-hearted door-keeper saw Ralph leap on to the train as it moved slowly out, and then he turned back into the waiting-room.  “Might as well give the lad a lift,” he said to a man who stood by, smiling; “he looked awful solemn when the last train before went and left him.  Jim won’t put him off till he gits to Pittston, anyway.”

Ralph found a vacant seat in the car and dropped into it, breathless and excited.  His good luck had come to him all in a moment so, that it had quite upset him.

He did not just understand why the door-keeper’s word should be good for his passage, but the conductor would know, and doubtless it was all right.