Seated next him was an individual who looked very much like the Italian who had shoved his head into the door of Tom’s room some months before.  This foreigner was watching the Californian—­if such he was—­as a cat watches a mouse.

“I believe he means to rob him,” was Tom’s conclusion, who, without being suspected by the scoundrel, was taking mental notes of the whole proceeding.

The supposition was confirmed within five minutes, when the Italian, leaning over toward the other, in an apparently careless manner, began cautiously inserting his hand into his watch-pocket.

The instant Tom saw this, he bent forward and shook the Californian’s shoulder so vigorously that he started up, and demanded in a gruff voice what was the matter.  The Italian, of course, had withdrawn his hand like a flash, and was leaning the other way, with his eyes half-closed, like one sinking into a doze.

“I saw that man there,” said Tom, pointing to the Italian, “with his hand in your pocket, about to steal your watch, and I thought I’d best let you know.”

“Is that so?” demanded the stranger, a giant in stature, as he laid his immense hand on the shoulder of the other, who started up as if just aroused from sleep, and protested in broken English that he was not aware of being seated with the gentleman at all.

His vehement declarations seemed to raise a doubt in the mind of the Californian, who began an examination of his pockets.  He found everything right, and so declared.

“He was just beginning operations,” said Tom in explanation, “when I woke you.”

“Bein’ as he ain’t took nothin’, I won’t knock the head off him,” said the Californian, as he announced himself to be; “but he ain’t any business to look so much like a sneaking dog, so I’ll punch him on general principles.”

Whereupon he gave the fellow such a resounding cuff that he flopped out of the seat, and, scrambling to his feet, hurried out of the car.

The Californian thanked Tom, and then resumed his nap.

In half an hour Tom found the tobacco-smoke so oppressive that he rose to go into the next car.  On the platform stood the discomfited Italian, who seemed to be waiting for revenge.

“You lie of me,” he muttered, before Tom suspected his danger.  “I show you.”

With a quick push he gave the lad a violent shove, thrusting him entirely off the platform and out upon the ground, fortunately clear of the rushing wheels.

Chapter XIII.

The speed with which the train was running at the time Tom Gordon was pushed off was such that he was thrown forward with great violence upon the hard earth, where he lay senseless, with his leg broken and a number of severe bruises about his body.

The only one who saw his fall was the miscreant that caused it; and it is not necessary to say he made no alarm, and the train went whirling on to its destination.