Marty confessed—partially. He told about his cousin in the other car and how he had come on this long journey very secretly to watch over and protect Janice.
Despite the evident ignorance of the boy there was something about his actions that impressed this man with the really fine qualities of Marty's character. He asked the boy:
"Have you telegraphed back to your father to reassure him of your safety—ahem—and your cousin's?"
"No," Marty said. "That runs into money, don't it? I—I was going to write."
"Send a night letter," advised the man. "That will not be very expensive. And it will relieve your folks' minds."
So Marty did this, sending the message from a station where the train lingered for a few minutes. The result of the receipt of this dispatch in Polktown was to start a series of quite unforeseen events; but Marty had no idea of this when he wrote:
"I got my eye on Janice. She is all right so far."
As far as he knew the boy told the truth in that phrase. Several times each day Marty managed to get a glimpse of his cousin. On almost every such occasion she was in the company of the tall, black-eyed, foreign-looking woman who had been with Janice when Marty had run against them in the Chicago railway station.
"Those two's havin' it nice an' soft," Marty thought as he observed them through the window of the dining car when the long train stopped at a station and the boy got out to stretch his legs.
"Come in and have dinner with me, Martin," said the gentleman to whom he had sold his berth reservation, seeing the boy apparently gazing hungrily in at the diners.