"WELL, SIR, IT WAS ENOUGH TO MAKE A BOY'S HAIR TURN GRAY."
"Suddenly something woke me up. I didn't know where I was at first, but it came back to me in a minute, and I was awfully cold. A little scared, too, for if I had slept any longer I might have been carried past Winter Park, and a pretty thing that would have been. I jumped up and looked out, but it was too dark to see anything much. We were running very slow, and I thought by the way things looked we were just getting into a station. So I sat down by the window and watched, and, sure enough, we were just about to stop. When we did stop, my car stood right square in front of the bay-window of a station. And what do you think I saw? Well, sir, it was enough to make a boy's hair turn gray. There was a big sign on the front of the building, WAYCROSS; and the clock inside the window said 4.35.
"Then I knew I was in for it; for Waycross, you know, is in Georgia, about half-way between Jacksonville and Savannah, and nearly three hundred miles above Winter Park. Instead of taking a little nap, I had slept for eight or nine hours, and I was three hundred miles away from my friends, without a cent in my pocket. My first thought was to get out, but while I had my hand on the door-knob I thought better of it. What would become of me if I got out? I had no money to go home with—not even a cent to telegraph to my folks with. Go to the conductor, do you say? You see, we were on an entirely different railroad from the one we started on, and had a different conductor, of course. This one wouldn't know anything about me, and probably would not believe my story.
"It was a pretty tough place, wasn't it? Private car, soft sofa, fine rugs, great style, and not a cent of money. While I was trying to make up my mind what to do, the train started. But that was all right; for somehow I couldn't get it out of my head that the best thing I could do was to stick to the car. You see, I figured it this way: when I didn't come home at nine o'clock, they'd begin to worry about me. They'd telegraph to the superintendent, and he'd understand how it was, and telegraph along the line, and have me found and sent home.
"Had it all reasoned out fine, didn't I? And it would have turned out so, only for one thing. The superintendent drove out in the country somewhere from Lakeland, where he couldn't be reached by telegraph, and he didn't get back to Winter Park for two days. Nobody else knew that I was in this car. Wasn't that a fix for you?
"But I'm getting ahead of my story. I'd made up my mind to stick to the car, if I had to ride all the way to New York. But of course my folks and the superintendent would find me long before that. You see, I've read in the papers how lost boys in New York are taken care of by the police, and their friends telegraphed to. But I had a better plan than that to try first, if it came to the worst; I'd go to a good hotel and get them to telegraph, and my father would send on money for me. The summer clothes I wore would be some proof of my coming from Florida. You see, I had to think out every little point.
"Well, I'll not tire you with telling you how I rode on and on and on, and how nobody came into the car after me. You know the road, of course. We were in Savannah, and then we were in Charleston, and in Wilmington; but nobody inquired for me. I may as well own up that I was pretty well frightened when night came on again. I kept the door locked, of course, and most all the shades down, for somehow I didn't care much about looking at the scenery.
"But I had to break my rule about not going through the car, for by night I was almost starved. There must be something to eat in the kitchen, I thought; and I went and looked. Not a thing there! Closets empty, and all scrubbed out clean, refrigerator open and empty, not so much anywhere as a scrap of bread. I'd have eaten some, you know, if there'd been any there—for what would a railroad president care for a slice of bread when a fellow was hungry? That made me kind of desperate, and I tried the dining-room—this room. Well, sir, in the closet under that cabinet in the corner I found a big earthenware jar half full of Boston water-crackers—those fearfully hard ones, you know. But didn't they taste good, though! I felt kind of mean about eating them, but it was all right— Mr. Plant says it was, and he's sorry I didn't find a porter-house steak there.
"Lying down that second night was the worst time of all. Did I cry, you say? Yes, sir, I did cry. Mind you, I'm only fourteen, and a bigger boy than that would have cried. Then sometimes I laughed, too. When I began to wonder whether I was a nabob travelling in a private car, or a tramp looking for a supper, that made me laugh. It was frightfully dark, and of course I did not dare light a lamp. It was cold, too; but I managed that with more rugs. There were plenty of rugs. By that time I was nearly a thousand miles away from my friends, and nobody seemed to be making any inquiries about me. But I knew that was nonsense, for do you think my mother wouldn't hunt me? When I thought of how she must be worrying about me, it made me cry again, and I cried myself to sleep. The next thing I knew somebody was shaking me by the shoulder.