“Very well, sir. I will take as many chances as you do.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Moit, sir; Duncan Moit.”
“Scotch?”
“By ancestry, Captain. American by birth.”
“All right; make haste and get your traps aboard as soon as possible.”
“I will. Thank you, Captain Steele.”
He put on his cap and walked hurriedly away, and when he had gone both Mr. Harlan and my father rallied me on account of my queer “passenger.”
“He looks to me like a crank, Sam,” said the agent. “But it’s your fireworks, not mine.”
“Whatever induced you to take him?” Captain Steele enquired, wonderingly.