"Come, hurry," growled the porter, making a move as though to seize Bob by the arm and drag him from the car.
But before he could do so, the stern voice of an elderly and well-dressed man, who was occupying the second seat ahead, exclaimed:
"Porter, can't you see this boy is unaccustomed to travelling? Why don't you show him the way to the chair car?"
"What, me take that crittur fru three coaches? It's——"
But the negro was not given the opportunity to finish.
Bumping into the porter so that he knocked him to one side, the man who had taken the negro to task for his treatment of Bob exclaimed:
"Then I will show him the way. Come, son."
And he held out his hand, while all anger had disappeared from his face, as he looked at Bob kindly.
"My name is Bob Chester," said the boy, taking the outstretched hand and shaking it.
"And mine is Horace Perkins," returned the elder man, unable to restrain a smile as he thought of the unceremonious introduction to himself, who practically owned the road. "I am sorry you should have had so unpleasant an experience."