waist-deep in snow and slept under the stars, and enjoyed nearly every minute.  So it wasn’t the hardships that I had every reason to expect that got me down.  I think it was the feeling that dad had turned me down; that I was in exile, and—­in his eyes, at least—­disgraced, it was knowing that he thought me pretty poor truck, without giving me a chance to be anything better.  I humped over the rail at the stern, and watched the waves slap at us viciously, like an ill-tempered poodle, and felt for all the world like a dog that’s been kicked out into the rain.  Maybe the medicine was good for me, but it wasn’t pleasant.  It never occurred to me, that night, to wonder how dad felt about it; but I’ve often thought of it since.

I had a section to myself, so I could sulk undisturbed; dad was not small, at any rate, and, though he hadn’t let me have his car, he meant me to be decently comfortable.  That first night I slept without a break; the second I sat in the smoker till a most unrighteous hour, cultivating the acquaintance of a drummer for a rubber-goods outfit.  I thought that, seeing I was about to mingle with the working classes, I couldn’t begin too soon to study them.  He was a pretty good sort, too.

The rubber-goods man left me at Seattle, and from there on I was at the tender mercies of my own thoughts and an elderly lady with a startlingly blond daughter, who sat directly opposite me and was frankly disposed to friendliness.  I had never given much time to the study of women, and so had no alternative but to answer questions and smile fatuously upon the blond daughter, and wonder if I ought to warn the mother that “clothes do not make the man,” and that I was a black sheep and not a desirable acquaintance.  Before I had quite settled that point, they left the train.  I am afraid I am not distinctly a chivalrous person; I hummed the Doxology after their retreating forms and retired into myself, with a feeling that my own society is at times desirable and greatly to be chosen.

After that I was shy, and nothing happened except that on the last evening of the trip, I gave up my sole remaining five dollars in the diner, and walked out whistling softly.  I was utterly and unequivocally strapped.  I went into the smoker to think it over; I knew I had started out with a hundred or so, and that I had considered that sufficient to see me through.  Plainly, it was not sufficient; but it is a fact that I looked upon it as a joke, and went to sleep grinning idiotically at the thought of me, Ellis Carleton, heir to almost as many millions as I was years old, without the price of a breakfast in his pocket.  It seemed novel and interesting, and I rather enjoyed the situation.  I wasn’t hungry, then!

Osage, Montana, failed to rouse any enthusiasm in me when I saw the place next day, except that it offered possibilities in the way of eating—­at least, I fancied it did, until I stepped down upon the narrow platform and looked about me.  It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and I had fasted since dinner the evening before.  I was not happy.