“Sure! He was making trouble in a first-class sleeper; tried to pull out a passenger whose berth he claimed. Where’s he gone?”
“He went down the steps,” said Kit. “A minute or two since he was running after the train.”
The train hand lifted his lantern and the conductor saw a red mark on Kit’s face.
“Looks as if something hit you,” he said meaningly.
“The drummer’s flask. The knock accounts for his getting off the train.”
“You put him off?” said the railroad man. “You have surely got some gall! Well, you’ve saved me trouble, and when he gets tired I reckon he’ll steer for the depot.”
He banged the door and Kit pulled his clothes straight and rejoined Alison.
“The fellow who bothered you is gone and I saw the conductor,” he said, and gave her his sleeper ticket. “The porter’s coming and will make up your berth. Good-night!”
Alison thanked him, and he went along the train to an emigrant car. Pulling a shelf from the roof he climbed up and folded his coat for a pillow. The polished shelf was hard and Kit had no rug, but he was young and the night was hot. The roll of the wheels got soothing and died away, and he was asleep.