The mandarin began running up and down the aisle of the car, wringing his fat hands and yelling for Sam Wing. He said other things, too, but it was all in his heathen gibberish and could not be comprehended.
By then every person in the car was awake.
"Crazy chink!" shouted the man who had spoken before. "He's gone dotty! Look out for him!"
At that moment the train lumbered to a halt and the lights of a station shone through the car windows. The brakeman jammed open the door and shouted a name.
"Motor Matt!" wailed Tsan Ti. "Estimable friend, come to my wretched assistance!"
"Here, brakeman!" cried the wrathful passenger who had already aired his views, "take this slant-eyed lunatic by the collar of his kimono and give him a hi'st into the right of way. Chinks ought to be carried in cattle cars, anyhow."
Tsan Ti, however, did not wait to be "hoisted into the right of way."
With a final yell, he flung himself along the aisle and out the rear door, nearly overturning the astounded brakeman. Once on the station platform, he made a bee line for the waiting room and the telegraph office.
There was but one person in all America in whom the mandarin had any confidence, but one person to whom he would appeal. This was the king of the motor boys, who, at that moment, was in the town of Catskill.