“The ticket’s all right,” grunted the man.  “Now, whar’s youah parlah cyar ticket?”

“My what?” asked Bob.

“Youah parlah cyar ticket.”

“That’s all the ticket I have,” returned Bob.  “Isn’t that enough?  I told the man I wanted a chair-car ticket, and that’s what he gave me.”

“Huh!  I thought so.  This ain’t no chair cyar.  This is a parlah cyar.  The cyar you-all want is up front, four cyars ahead.  Now get out of hyar lively.”

“But I can’t get out while the train’s going,” protested Bob.  “I might get hurt, and—­and besides, I want to go to Chicago, and if I get off I’ll lose my train.”

And in Bob’s voice, as he pictured himself in his mind left beside the railroad tracks in a strange place and at night, there was a plaintive appeal.

“You don’t have to git off ther train,” snarled the porter.  “All you gotta do is to walk right fru ther other cyars, three of ’em, mind you, and you’ll find your chair cyar.  The idea of you-all getting into a parlah cyar with a chair-cyar ticket.”

Reassured by the information that it would be unnecessary for him to leave the train in order to reach the proper car, Bob rose from the soft and luxurious seat slowly.

“Come, hurry,” growled the porter, making a move as though to seize Bob by the arm and drag him from the car.

But before he could do so, the stern voice of an elderly and well-dressed man, who was occupying the second seat ahead, exclaimed: 

“Porter, can’t you see this boy is unaccustomed to travelling?  Why don’t you show him the way to the chair car?”

“What, me take that crittur fru three coaches?  It’s——­”

But the negro was not given the opportunity to finish.

Bumping into the porter so that he knocked him to one side, the man who had taken the negro to task for his treatment of Bob exclaimed: 

“Then I will show him the way.  Come, son.”

And he held out his hand, while all anger had disappeared from his face, as he looked at Bob kindly.

“My name is Bob Chester,” said the boy, taking the outstretched hand and shaking it.

“And mine is Horace Perkins,” returned the elder man, unable to restrain a smile as he thought of the unceremonious introduction to himself, who practically owned the road.  “I am sorry you should have had so unpleasant an experience.”

And as the railroad magnate and the poorly-clad boy passed from sight of those in the car, the porter moaned: 

“Oh, lawdy, lawdy!  Ah sho has done got mahself in a mess.”

And the comments of the other passengers, as they prophesied the punishment the railroad president would inflict on his uncivil employee, told him that they agreed with his opinion thoroughly.

As Bob and his distinguished guide reached the chair car, the latter beckoned to the brakeman and said: 

“I am Mr. Perkins.  I presume you know that I am the president of this road.  I want you to keep an eye on this boy.  He isn’t accustomed to travelling.  He’ll probably need something to eat to-morrow, so either take him into one of the railroad restaurants, or bring him some lunch into the car.  Here’s some money for his meals.”