"That seems hardly decent," Boyd remarked. "He might at least have said good-bye and wished us well."
"When he's around he makes me sore, and when he's away I miss him," said George. "He's probably out organizing something—or somebody."
At the station they waited until the last warning had sounded, vainly hoping that Fraser would put in an appearance, then sought their Pullman more piqued than they cared to admit. When the train pulled out, they went forward to the smoking compartment, still meditating upon this unexpected defection; but as they lighted their cigars, a familiar voice greeted them:
"Hello, you!"—and there was Fraser grinning at their astonishment.
"What are you doing here?" they cried, together.
"Me? Oh, I'm on my way East."
"Whereabouts East?"
"Chicago, ain't it? I thought that was what you said." He seated himself and lighted another long cigar.
"Are you going to Chicago?" George asked.
"Sure! We've got to put this cannery deal over." The crook sighed luxuriously and began to blow smoke rings. "Pretty nice train, ain't it?"