But immediately I discovered I was going to have my hands full.  It seemed that the little, shifty, rat-faced man had been possessed of a small handbag which the negro porter had failed to put off the train; and which was of tremendous importance.  At the discovery it was lacking my new friend went into hysterics.  He ran a few feet after the disappearing train; he called upon high heaven to destroy utterly the race of negro porters; he threatened terrible reprisals against a delinquent railroad company; he seized upon a bewildered station agent over whom he poured his troubles in one gush; and he lifted up his voice and wept—­literally wept!  This to the vast enjoyment of my friends.

“What ails the small party?” asked Windy Bill coming up.

“He’s lost the family jewels!” “The papers are missing.”  “Sandy here (meaning me) won’t give him his bottle and it’s past feeding time.”  “Sandy’s took away his stick of candy and won’t give it back.”  “The little son-of-a-gun’s just remembered that he give the nigger porter two bits,” were some of the replies he got.

On the general principle of “never start anything you can’t finish,” I managed to quell the disturbance; I got a description of the bag, and arranged to have it wired for at the next station.  On receiving the news that it could not possibly be returned before the following morning, my protege showed signs of another outburst.  To prevent it I took him firmly by the arm and led him across to McGrue’s.  He was shivering as though from a violent chill.

The multitude trailed interestedly after; but I took my man into one of McGrue’s private rooms and firmly closed the door.

“Put that under your belt,” I invited, pouring him a half tumbler of McGrue’s best, “and pull yourself together.”

He smelled it.

“It’s only whiskey,” he observed, mournfully.  “That won’t help much.”

“You don’t know this stuff,” I encouraged.

He took off the half tumbler without a blink, shook his head, and poured himself another.  In spite of his scepticism I thought his nervousness became less marked.

“Now,” said I, “if you don’t mind, why do you descend on a peaceful community and stir it all up because of the derelictions of an absent coon?  And why do you set such store by your travelling bag?  And why do you weep in the face of high heaven and outraged manhood?  And why do you want to find Hooper’s ranch?  And why are you and your vaudeville make up?”

But he proved singularly embarrassed and nervous and uncommunicative, darting his glance here and there about him, twisting his hands, never by any chance meeting my eye.  I leaned back and surveyed him in considerable disgust.

“Look here, brother,” I pointed out to him.  “You don’t seem to realize.  A man like you can’t get away with himself in this country except behind footlights—­and there ain’t any footlights.  All I got to do is to throw open yonder door and withdraw my beneficent protection and you will be set upon by a pack of ravening wolves with their own ideas of humour, among whom I especially mention one Windy Bill.  I’m about the only thing that looks like a friend you’ve got.”