He went off, but he did not look for the conductor. When he reached the smoking compartment he pulled out some paper money and knitted his brows. He had been extravagant, his wad had melted, and he did not know when he would get a job. All the same, he imagined Alison’s wad was smaller than his, and he understood her embarrassment.
On the Colonist cars sleeping accommodation, of a sort, is supplied without charge; on board the other cars one must, as usual, buy a ticket for a berth, but Alison had not reckoned on paying more. Sometimes to go to bed on board a second-class car is awkward, and Alison was fastidious. For her to use a Colonist car, crowded by foreign emigrants, was unthinkable. Well, Kit had cheated her about the lunch basket and he must cheat her again. He pulled out his sleeper ticket, but since Alison imagined he looked for the conductor, he resolved to wait for two or three minutes.
The train stopped, and Kit, going to the vestibule, saw a water tank, a few indistinct houses and the station agent’s office. In the background were dusky woods, and he heard cowbells chime. The guard rail on the car platform was open, as if somebody had got down. Then a man coming from the next car pushed past. His step was uneven, and he lurched against the door. Kit wondered whether he was drunk, but he turned the handle and vanished.
After a few moments somebody waved a lantern, the bell tolled, and the cars jerked forward. In the quiet dark, the locomotive’s explosive snorts rang like cannon shots; the train was heavy, and Kit thought the track went up hill. He, however, must rejoin Alison, but when he reached the car he stopped.
A man leaned over the seat Alison occupied. She faced the stranger, but he blocked the passage between the benches and she had not got up. The other passengers were in their berths behind the curtains, wheels rolled, and the locomotive labored noisily up the incline. The fellow certainly was drunk and carried a pocket flask and a shining cup. It looked as if he urged Alison to take the cup, for her face was red. Then she saw Kit, and her relief was flattering.
Signing her to be quiet, Kit advanced noiselessly. The stranger looked the other way, and Kit stopped a few yards off. To disturb the passengers by an angry dispute would embarrass Alison, and he doubted if the other would weigh a logical argument. Then the fellow tried to push the cup into Alison’s hand.
“The stuff’s all right. Fine club whisky; I got it at Quebec. They’ve no use for Pussyfoots down the river.”
“I hate whisky,” said Alison in a quiet voice.
The other laughed. “Oh, shucks! You’re playing shy. Anyhow, you got to sample some. I took a shine to you.” He stopped and the liquor splashed. “Leg-go. Who the——?”
Kit pulled him from the bench and turned him round. The man was big, but he was not steady on his feet and, since Kit was behind him, he could not seize his antagonist. Kit kept behind, and holding him firmly, pushed him to the door. They had not disturbed the passengers, but since he must disengage one hand, the door was an obstacle. When he let go, the other turned and drove the flask against his face. Although the knock was hard, Kit turned the handle, and the fellow plunged across the platform, got his balance, swore and came back. Kit had thought he would be satisfied to put the other out, but the blow had hurt and anger conquered him.