“Hullo!” quoth the conductor, eyeing him suspiciously. “Where in h—ll did you spring from? Where’s your ticket?”
“Mr. Carlton’s got it,” answered Cardoe, with easy assurance. “He keeps the tickets for the whole crowd of us.”
“Don’t know no Mr. Carlton,” cried the conductor brusquely. “Where you goin’ to?”
“Kansas City,” said Harry.
“Huh!” exclaimed the conductor. “This train don’t go to Kansas City. Off you get!” And, suiting the action to the words, he suddenly pounced upon my poor contortionist, and flung him bodily out of the car.
By this time he had, of course, travelled some distance away from Santa Fé, and after picking himself up, and carefully feeling himself all over to make sure that no bones were broken, he started to walk back along the railway track. But he was not yet at the end of his troubles. He had not gone far, when two big men sprang up from the darkness alongside the track, thrust in his face two big revolvers, and curtly cried, “Hands up!”
Now any American under such circumstances would have known what to do, and would at once have raised his hands above his head to avoid being shot. But poor Harry was unused to the summary methods of the wild and woolly West, and instead of doing as he was ordered he simply stood stock-still, and gazed at his captors in hopeless bewilderment. The next instant, however, he was on the ground, another member of the patrol—which had been sent out by the railway authorities to guard the track—having sprung upon him from behind and downed him.
Then, having pinioned his arms, they started to cross-examine him. Of course, directly he began to speak in answer to their questions they knew that he was no striker, and presently they let him go. They told him, however, that he had narrowly escaped being shot dead in his tracks, and warned him on no account to attempt to walk back to Santa Fé along the line, lest he should meet some other patrol the members of which might very likely shoot first and challenge afterwards. As a result, the poor chap had to make a wide detour into the desert, and only just managed to reach the “depôt” and scramble into the train as it was on the point of starting.
At Kansas City I had a somewhat disconcerting experience; which, however, was not without its humorous side. I arrived there, after travelling all night, in the early morning after breakfast, and as I was billed to give my first show at a matinée the same day, I was in a bit of a hurry. I was hustling round seeing to the baggage, when an old gent with a long white beard came up to me, accompanied by quite a number of other people, and, beaming at me through his spectacles, inquired:
“Are you Mr. Carlton?”