“I’ve sent those infernal plebes to New York,” he said. “By Jingo, I’d like to send them to Hades. If they aren’t fired as it is it’ll be because you kids give us away. And now let’s go back to bed.”
CHAPTER XXI.
MARK COMES TO TOWN.
Mr. Timothy O’Flaherty was a tramp. That was the plain unvarnished statement of the case. Mr. O’Flaherty would have called himself a knight of the road, and a comic editor would have called him Tired Tim; but to everybody else he was a plain tramp.
Mr. O’Flaherty was very, very tired, having walked nearly twenty miles that day without getting even so much as a square meal. One whole pie was the sum total of his daily bread and that was so bad that he had fed it to the bulldog for revenge and walked on. He was walking still, at present on the tracks of the West Shore Railroad some thirty miles north of New York.
From what has been said of Mr. O’Flaherty you may suppose that his heart leaped with joy when along came a rumbling night freight. He watched it crawl past with a professional and critical eye; there was a platform he might ride on, but he was liable to be seen there. If only he could find an open car. There was one! He made a leap at the door, swung himself aboard with as much grace as if he had lived all his life on Broadway, and then crawled into the car.
Mr. O’Flaherty looked around. There was some one else in that car!
“Another tramp,” thought the newcomer, and so to awaken him he gave him a friendly prod with his toe.
“Hello!” said he; but there was no answer.
“Drunk,” was the next conjecture, but then he heard a low sound that was very much like a groan.