“I see the smoke. You’ll have to hurry, if you want that suit case,” said Baca as they drew up at Neighbor’s hotel.
“Oh, no—got her all packed; it won’t take but a minute. Come along, if you’re afraid I’ll give you the slip.”
“I’m not,” said Baca. “What good would it do you?”
“I guess that’s right,” grinned Jones. “I’ve done my worst now.” He hurried in, thrust a bill into the hotelkeeper’s hand and grabbed up the suit case, now his own, which had once belonged to the Kansas City Kid. The car trundled them to the station just in time to buy tickets.
“Well, good-by, Baca! Oh, say! Here’s a V I borrowed from Beck. Wish you’d give it to him as you go back uptown, and tell him I’m much obliged. Give him my best. He sleeps up over the joint, you know.”
“All right; I’ll hand it to him. Hi! You’re forgetting your suit case.”
“Oh, yes! Well, here she comes. So long!”
“Glad to have met you. So long!”
There were no other passengers. The little jerkwater train halted for a bare moment to let them on and then chugged stolidly on her way. They stood on the platform of the rear car; the greenwood closed in beside the right of way, so that the last Ducky saw of Saragossa was the receding triangle made by the station, the old Almandares Warehouse, and a black doll waving from a toy car. Ducky sighed.
“No hard feelings, kid?”