"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said the other humbly. "It was not intentional, I assure you."
"You're a clumsy fellow," the other went on, in a loud voice. "Look here; you've made me knock ashes all over this gentleman," and he turned to Mr. Post.
"That's all right," the miner said pleasantly, for he felt sorry for the other man. "He couldn't help it."
"He ought to be made to help it," the smoker went on, as if very indignant. "People who don't know how to ride on cars ought to keep off. I shall write a letter to the papers about it. Allow me to dust the ashes off your vest."
The man drew from his pocket a large white handkerchief, with which he began wiping the cigar ashes from Mr. Post's clothing.
"Awfully careless of me, too," he murmured. "Hope you take no offense."
"Not at all," the miner was saying. "It was all an accident, I'm sure. You—"
Then, the miner's tone, which had been mild, suddenly changed. He made a grab for the hand of the young man who was dusting his vest off, and cried:
"No, you don't, you scoundrel! Now I see what your game is! Let go my diamond pin or I'll shoot you!" and he made a motion toward his pocket, while the other passengers on the platform made hasty movements to get off.