“Didn’t you just ask me ‘What’s the good?’”
“Me? Lawd! No, suh!”
“Well, somebody did,” asserted E. Van Tenner, vague but emphatic. “I’ll carry my own bag, thank you.”
“Ghos’es! He’s hearin’ ghos’es,” surmised the alarmed African, staring after his escaped patron as that haunted gentleman made his way to the Pullman window.
Here he again felt for the wallet. Though there was no shock this time it seemed to come forth reluctantly, and the magic phrase as it met his eyes took on a quality of insistence.
“Well, what is the good?” repeated E. Van Tenner.
“Beg your pardon?” said the astonished agent from his window.
“I—that is to say—have you a chair for New York on this train?”
“Just one left, sir.”
“Keep it!” the horrified Van Tenner heard himself say. Or was it himself that had said it? At any rate he was ten paces from the window on his way to a day coach before he recovered. Not until then did it occur to him that on his last trip the parlor car had been so hot and stuffy as to leave him with a headache all day. Perhaps he would be just as well off in a day coach; even better, possibly. He found a seat, disposed himself in it and essayed to return the beggar’s purse to his pocket. It resisted. Its reluctance was quite uncanny until E. Van Tenner observed that in some way the pencil had got afoul of the pocket flap.