"She deserves a better deal out of the deck than to be tied to the memory of a man like me," he thought. "When she reads my name in the papers I'll be dead to her, dead and cremated. After all, it can't be worse than the other."
"Well, well," the reporter said, looking up, "you say you have lost some friends?"
"Yes, two—a man and a little girl, in the coach just ahead of this one."
"Their names and addresses, please. I'm in a devil of a rush—using railroad telegraph, and it is packed with official business. Got an opening now, but may lose it any moment. Mention ages and business, if you know them."
"John Trott, twenty years old, Ridgeville, Georgia, brick-mason."
"All right—two t's in Trott, eh? Well, and the other one?"
"Dora Boyles—B-o-y-l-e-s," slowly spelled John; "age about nine, orphan, same town—Ridgeville, Georgia."
"Thanks. Is that all?" asked the reporter.
"That is all," and, afraid of being further questioned, John turned and stalked away.