"I'll take charge of this young man," said the policeman.
CHAPTER III.
Snatched From Death—Forty-nine Miles on a Hand-car—Finding a Partner.
Two-score people had seen me pulled down from the tender, and were now watching the result of my sudden discomfiture with interest, and with a look of deep humiliation and embarrassment—for the most part assumed—for my vanity had materially suffered in that fifty-seven mile ride, I now stood in the presence of the policeman.
Apparently I could not even look up at the cruel, cold-staring crowd of country folks that thickly gathered around me.
Evidently the policeman was touched, and unaware of the fact that I was playing on his sympathy, he questioned me as to where I lived, where I was going, etc., all of which I answered in a straightforward manner, adding that I was going West to cure the asthma, and that I had letters of recommendation.
I had several other letters of this kind in my pocket, but remembering that home reference is said to be the best, I selected only two from the bunch—those of Mr. John Shackelford and Mr. Frank Powell, and here I must beg their pardon, most humbly, for using their kind notes of praise like this, and am sure they'll forgive me, for I was in a tight box.