“Tickets, please!” clicked the conductor sharply.
Most of the men began to fumble about in their pockets, but the three singers and the one who had been offering the quart bottle did not stir.
“Ticket, Jack!” repeated the conductor, “come on, now.”
The big bearded man leaned uncertainly against the seat.
“Now look here, Bud,” he urged in wheedling tones, “I ain't got no ticket. You know how it is, Bud. I blows my stake.” He fished uncertainly in his pocket and produced the quart bottle, nearly empty, “Have a drink?”
“No,” said the conductor sharply.
“A' right,” replied Jack, amiably, “take one myself.” He tipped the bottle, emptied it, and hurled it through a window. The conductor paid no apparent attention to the breaking of the glass.
“If you haven't any ticket, you'll have to get off,” said he.
The big man straightened up.
“You go to hell!” he snorted, and with the sole of his spiked boot delivered a mighty kick at the conductor's thigh.