"Can't have stop-overs?"
Brockway got upon his feet. "One moment, if you please," he protested. "There is nothing wrong—nothing different. Mr. Jordan and I were merely discussing the question of an extra limit on his own ticket; that was all."
"Oh."
"Ah."
"Where do we get dinner?"
"What time do we reach Denver?"
"Is there a dining-car on this train?"
Brockway answered the inquiries in sequence, and when the norm of quiet was restored, a soft-spoken little gentleman in a grass-cloth duster and a velvet skull-cap drew him away to the smoking-compartment.
"Let's go and smoke," he said; and Brockway went willingly, inasmuch as the little gentleman with the womanish face and the ready cigar-case was the only person in the party who seemed to be capable of travelling without a guardian.
"Worry the life out of you, don't they, my boy," said the comforter, when his cigar was alight.