While Gun was in California, I was taken home on a requisition from my wife, and Oscar Gunderson and his little girl became a memory—a page in a book that I had partly read and lost, but not entirely forgotten.
One day last summer I took the westbound express at Topeka, and spreading my grip, hat, coat and umbrella, out on the seats, so as to resemble an experienced English tourist, I fished up a Wheeling stogie and a book and went into the smoking-pen of the sleeper, which I had all to myself for half-an-hour.
The train stopped to give the thirsty tender a drink and a man came in to wash his hands. He had been riding on the engine.
After washing, he stepped to the door of the "smokery," struck a match on the leg of his pants, held both hands around the end of his cigar while he lighted it, then waving the match to put it out, he threw it down and came in.
While he was absorbed in all this, I took a glance at him. Six-foot-four, if an inch; high cheek bones; yellow beard; clear, blue eyes; white skin, and a hand about the size of a Cincinnati ham. I knew that face despite twelve years of turkey-tracks about the eyes.
"Gunderson, old man, how are you?" I said, offering my fin.
"Well, John Alexander, how in the name of thunder did you get away out here on the main stem, without orders?"
"Inspection-car," said I; "how did you get here?"
"Deadheading home; been out on special, a gilt-edged special, took her clean through to New York."