An hour and a half later they landed in a stubble field in the Salinas Valley and, bidding his friend good-bye, Bill Peck trudged across to the railroad track and sat down.  When the train bearing Cappy Ricks came roaring down the valley, Peck twisted a Sunday paper with which he had provided himself, into an improvised torch, which he lighted.  Standing between the rails he swung the flaming paper frantically.

The train slid to a halt, a brakeman opened a vestibule door, and Bill Peck stepped wearily aboard.

“What do you mean by flagging this train?” the brakeman demanded angrily, as he signaled the engineer to proceed.  “Got a ticket?”

“No, but I’ve got the money to pay my way.  And I flagged this train because I wanted to change my method of travel.  I’m looking for a man in stateroom A of car 7, and if you try to block me there’ll be murder done.”

“That’s right.  Take advantage of your half-portion arm and abuse me,” the brakeman retorted bitterly.  “Are you looking for that little old man with the Henry Clay collar and the white mutton-chop whiskers?”

“I certainly am.”

“Well, he was looking for you just before we left San Francisco.  He asked me if I had seen a one-armed man with a box under his good arm.  I’ll lead you to him.”

A prolonged ringing at Cappy’s stateroom door brought the old gentleman to the entrance in his nightshirt.

“Very sorry to have to disturb you, Mr. Ricks,” said Bill Peck, “but the fact is there were so many Cohens and Cohns and Cohans, and it was such a job to dig up two thousand dollars, that I failed to connect with you at seven forty-five last night, as per orders.  It was absolutely impossible for me to accomplish the task within the time limit set, but I was resolved that you should not be disappointed.  Here is the vase.  The shop wasn’t within four blocks of where you thought it was, sir, but I’m sure I found the right vase.  It ought to be.  It cost enough and was hard enough to get, so it should be precious enough to form a gift for any friend of yours.”

Gappy Ricks stared at Bill Peck as if the latter were a wraith.

“By the Twelve Ragged Apostles!” he murmured.  “By the Holy Pink-toed Prophet!  We changed the sign on you and we stacked the Cohens on you and we set a policeman to guard the shop to keep you from breaking the window, and we made you dig up two thousand dollars on Sunday night in a town where you are practically unknown, and while you missed the train at eight o’clock, you overtake it at two o’clock in the morning and deliver the blue vase.  Come in and rest your poor old game leg, Bill.  Brake-man, I’m much obliged to you.”

Bill Peck entered and slumped wearily down on the settee.  “So it was a plant?” he cracked, and his voice trembled with rage.  “Well, sir, you’re an old man and you’ve been good to me, so I do not begrudge you your little joke, but Mr. Ricks, I can’t stand things like I used to.  My leg hurts and my stump hurts and my heart hurts——­”