The American public is always interested in a novelty, and on occasions is not to be gainsaid—­the American public, as represented by the patrons of the Bar Harbor express, was interested at the moment in the Flopper, and they passed the conductor from hand to hand—­it was the only way he could have got through the car—­and deposited him outside in the vestibule to tell his troubles to the buffer-plate.

The Flopper was in deadly, serious earnest; there was no doubt, no possible room for doubt on that score—­one had but to look at the flush upon his cheeks and note the ring of conviction in his voice.  Even Pale Face Harry’s gibes and sneers melted before the unshakable assurance, and he became, with reservations, noticeably impressed.

A metropolitan newspaper man was struck with the idea of a humorous series of articles to pay for his vacation, entitled, “Characters I Have Met In Maine”—­and forthwith, perched on the back of the seat behind the Flopper, proceeded to sketch out the first one, with the mental determination to get off at Needley for the local color necessary to its climax.

A soap drummer nudged a fellow drummer whose line was lingerie.

“Ever do Needley?” he grinned.

The lingerie exponent had a sense of humor—­he grinned back.

“My house is everlastingly rubbing it into me to open up new territory,” said the soap salesman.

“Me too,” responded the white-goods man.

“Needley,” said he of the soap persuasion, “would be virgin soil for any drummer.”

“I’d like to see the finish,” said the lingerie man—­still grinning.

“Well?” inquired the soap man—­still grinning.  “What do you say?”

“You bet!” said the man with eight trunks full of daintiness in the baggage car ahead.  “It’s Needley for ours—­you’re on!”

The Flopper was an artist—­and he was in his glory.  Where his position was indubitably weak, he side-stepped with the frank admission that he knew no more than they.  He knew only one thing, and that was the only thing he cared about, the rest made no odds to him, he was going down to Needley to be cured—­and he let them see Mr. Higgins’ letter.

A porter from the rear car squirmed and wriggled his way down to the seat occupied by the Flopper.

“Mistah Tho’nton, sah,” he announced importantly, “would like to see you in his private car, if you could done make it convenient, sah.”

“Sure!” said the Flopper.

The passengers crowded up, standing on the seats and arm-rests, to make room for the Flopper to crawl down the aisle, while the porter preceded him to open the doors.

Through the car in the rear of the one he had occupied, the regular parlor car, the Flopper, a piteous spectacle, made his way—­chairs turned, the occupants craned their necks after the deformed and broken creature, while smothered exclamations and little cries of sympathy from the women followed him along.  The Flopper’s eyes never lifted from the strip of carpet before him, but his lips moved.