Ardmore had dropped the jugs carelessly into the vestibule, and he was surveying them critically when the train started. The wheels were beginning to grind reluctantly when a cry down the track arrested his attention. A man was flying after the train, shouting at the top of his lungs. He ran, caught hold of the rail, and howled,—
“The gov’nor ain’t on they! Gimme back my jug.”
“Indian-giver!” yelled Ardmore. He stooped down, picked up the first jug that came to hand, and dropped it into the man’s outstretched arms.
The porter, having heard voices, rushed out upon Ardmore, who held the remaining jug to the light, scrutinizing it carefully.
“Please put this away for me, porter. It’s a little gift from an old army friend.”
Then Mr. Ardmore returned to his berth, fully pleased with his adventures, and slept until the porter gave warning of Raleigh.
CHAPTER IV.
DUTY AND THE JUG.
Mr. Thomas Ardmore, one trunk, two bags, and a little brown jug reached the Guilford House, Raleigh, at eight o’clock in the morning. Ardmore had never felt better in his life, he assured himself, as he chose a room with care, and intimated to the landlord his intention of remaining a week. But for the ill luck of having his baggage marked he should have registered himself falsely on the books of the inn; but feeling that this was not quite respectable, he assured the landlord, in response to the usual question, that he was not Ardmore of New York and Ardsley, but an entirely different person.
“Well, I don’t blame you for not wanting to be taken for any of that set,” remarked the landlord sympathetically.
“I should think not!” returned Ardmore, in a tone of deep disgust.