On June second, for five consecutive years, the ends of the earth had yielded up Phelan Harrihan; by a miracle of grace he had arrived in Nashville, decently appareled, ready to respond to his toast, to bask for his brief hour in the full glare of the calcium, then to depart again into oblivion.

It was now the first day of June and as Phelan concluded his tale, which was in fact an undress rehearsal of what he intended to tell on the morrow, he looked forward with modest satisfaction to the triumph that was sure to be his.  For the hundredth time he made certain that the small brown purse, so unused to its present obesity, was safe and sound in his inside pocket.

During the pause that followed his recital, his audience grew restive.

“Go on, do it again,” urged the ragged boy who sold the sandwiches, “show us how Forty Fathom Dan looked when he thought he was sinking.

“I don’t dare trifle with me features,” said Phelan solemnly.  “How much are those sandwiches.  One for five, is it?  Two for fifteen, I suppose.  Well, here’s one for me, and one for Corp, and keep the change, kid.  Ain’t that the train coming?”

“It’s the up train,” said the station-master, rising reluctantly; “it meets yours here.  I’ve got to be hustling.”

Phelan, left without an audience, strolled up and down the platform, closely followed by Corporal Harrihan.

As the train slowed up at the little Junction, there was manifestly some commotion on board.  Standing in the doorway of the rear car a small, white-faced woman argued excitedly with the conductor.

“I didn’t have no ticket, I tell you!” she was saying as the train came to a stop.  “I ’lowed I’d pay my way, but I lost my pocket-book.  I lost it somewheres on the train here, I don’t know where it is!”

“I’ve seen your kind before,” said the conductor wearily; “what did you get on for when you didn’t have anything to pay your fare with?”

“I tell you I lost my pocket-book after I got on!” she said doggedly; “I ain’t going to get off, you daren’t put me off!”

Phelan, who had sauntered up, grew sympathetic.  He, too, had experienced the annoyance of being pressed for his fare when it was inconvenient to produce it.

“Go ahead,” demanded the conductor firmly, “I don’t want to push you off, but if you don’t step down and out right away, I’ll have it to do.”

The woman’s expression changed from defiance to terror.  She clung to the brake with both hands and looked at him fearfully.

“No, no, don’t touch me!” she cried.  “Don’t make me get off!  I’ve got to get to Cincinnati.  My man’s there.  He’s been hurt in the foundry.  He’s—­maybe he’s dying now.”

“I can’t help that, maybe it’s so and maybe it ain’t.  You never had any money when you got on this train and you know it.  Go on, step off!”

“But I did!” she cried wildly; “I did.  Oh, God! don’t put me off.”