But Bob had no time to reply, for the trainmen were already shouting their "All aboard for Chicago," and it was only by running down the platform that he was able to get on a car just as the wheels began to move.
The car in which Bob found himself was upholstered in dark green, and the woodwork was of polished mahogany. Never had he seen anything so magnificent, and as he sank into a high-back seat, he uttered a sigh of contentment.
But he was not allowed to enjoy his luxury long.
While he was gazing with wide-staring eyes at everything about him, a colored porter entered the car and languidly glanced from one to another of the occupants, as though making a mental calculation of the tips he would receive, when his eyes fell on the poorly-clad figure of Bob, holding his box of lunch on his knees.
With an exclamation of surprise, the porter hastened to where the lad was sitting.
"What you-all doin' in hyar?" he demanded harshly.
The tone in which the question was asked now caused the other passengers, who had hitherto been too busy getting themselves comfortably settled to notice Bob, to turn their gaze upon him.
"I'm going to Chicago," returned Bob.
But the hostile look on the porter's face scared him, and he could not help a tremor that crept into his voice as he made his reply.
"Whar's yer ticket?" snarled the negro.