“I thought I was not mistaken,” he said at last, sobering.  “You are the same lad the train hands put off the Atlantic Express at Vernon a week ago.”

I nodded, beginning to suspect him of being a fly-cop who had spotted me for a pull.

“I never noticed the name of the burg,” I returned.  “Why? were you there?”

“Yes, I came in on the same train.  Just caught a glimpse of your face in the light of the brakeman’s lantern.  How did you get here?”

“Freight, two hours later.”

“You ’re not a bum, or you would n’t be working.”

I put one foot on the wheel, but he touched me on the sleeve with his cane.

“Wait a minute,” and there was more animation in the tone.  “I may have something better for you than this lumber wagon.  I ’m right, ain’t I, in guessing you ’re no regular bum?”

“I ’ve bummed it most of the way from Frisco; I had to.  I was homesick for the East, and lost my transportation.”

“Your what?”

“Transportation; I was discharged at the Presidio.”

“Oh, I see,” smiling again, and tapping the wheel with his stick; “the army—­foreign service?”

“The Philippines three years; invalided home.”

“By God, you don’t look it,” his eyes on me.  “Never saw a more perfect animal.  Fever?”

“No, bolo wound; got caught in the brush, and then lay out in a swamp all night, till our fellows got up.”

He looked at his watch, and I climbed into my seat.  “See here, I have n’t time to talk now, but I believe you are the very fellow I am looking for.  If you want an easier job than this,” waving a gloved hand toward the pile of lumber, “come and see me and we ’ll talk it over.”  He took a card out of a morocco case, and wrote a line on it.  “Come to that address at nine o’clock tonight.”

I took the bit of pasteboard as he handed it up.

“All right, sir, I ’ll be there on time.”

“Come to the side door,” he added swiftly, lowering his voice, “the one on the south.  Give three raps.  By the way, what is your name?”

“Gordon Craig,” I answered without pausing to think.  His eyes twinkled shrewdly.

“Ever been known by any other?”

“I enlisted under another; I ran away from home, and was not of age.”

“Oh, I see; well, that makes no difference to me.  Don’t forget, Craig, the side door at nine.”

I glanced back as we turned the corner; he was still standing at the edge of the walk, tapping the concrete with his cane.  Out of sight I looked curiously at the card.  It was the advertisement of a clothing house, and on the back was written “P.  B. Neale, 108 Chestnut Street.”