“I think it must have fallen out of my pocket. Much obliged!” he exclaimed.
It was an old passport, expired ten years since, but Stephen carried it about with him as a means of identification in case of accident.
“How did you know that this was mine?” he asked the brakeman from idle curiosity.
The man pointed with an exceedingly dirty thumb to the description.
“I ain’t no detective, but I reckon that fits pretty well.” Then he nodded to Loring and walked away.
Loring glanced idly at the passport as it lay open on his knee. As he did so he wondered what the friends who knew him ten years back, at the time when that document was issued, would say to his appearance now. “Wild oats gone to seed. I guess that about describes me,” he murmured, with a grim smile, as he folded the passport and slipped it back into the frayed lining of his pocket. Dissipation and wreck do not change the color of a man’s eyes, the shape of his forehead or the outline of his face, so that it had still been possible to recognize Loring by his old passport. Had it been a description of his personality instead of his measurements, no one could have recognized the original. Mathematically it is but the difference of an inch from a retreating chin to one thrust forward; artistically a very slight touch will turn frank eyes into hopeless ones; philosophically the turning of the corners of the lips downward instead of upward may change the whole viewpoint of life. Experience is mathematician, artist, and philosopher combined, and it had accomplished all these changes in Stephen Loring.
Through the parting kindness of friends, most of the men had some food, which they proceeded to chew with noisy satisfaction. Loring began to feel cravings. The Chinaman beside him was gnawing at a huge ham sandwich with a very green pickle protruding from between the edges of the bread. He eyed Loring, then turned to him and asked: “You hab bite? My name Hop Wah. I go cook for the outfit. Me heap fine cook,” solemnly added the celestial.
Loring gratefully shared the food.
The men in the car, who until now had been rather morose and silent, began to cheer up, and to sing noisily. Loring lazily wondered why, until he saw several black bottles passed promiscuously about. McKay handed his own flask to Loring.
“Have another drink!” he said, “there is nothing like it for a hang-over.”