the conductors, brakemen, and porters on the rattler, but they was slow in arrivin'. In the meelee, I bumped into a husky, wild-eyed combatant, which was just settin' himself for another rush.
"Who's that big, good-lookin' bird which is slappin' 'em all silly?" pants this guy. "I think I'll just tie in there and smack him down for luck!"
"You'll have lots of luck, all right," I says. "But it'll be all bad. That's Kid Roberts!"
"Like Kelly is!" howls my viz-a-viz. "Creepin' mackerel, I don't wish no part of that boy! I better get out of traffic here—thanks for the tip!"
With that, he flops right down flat on the floor and lays there!
Well, no kiddin', the whole train's in a uproar when it pulls into some slab and the gamblers collect themselves from the floor, rush for the doors, and force the scared porter to open 'em before we come to a full stop. As they still got young Pearson's jack, Kid Roberts tears after 'em and me after him. Ptomaine couldn't come, as he was busy strugglin' with most of the burly train crew which was tryin' to quell this pogrom and had picked him as the goat.
Me and the Kid lost our prey in the crowd at the station, and though we searched waitin' room, ticket office, baggage room, and the near-by streets high and low, there was no sign of 'em. When we run back breathlessly to the train I let out a beller which alarmed the depot help, whilst Kid Roberts, which would laugh away a broken leg, sits down on a trunk and chuckles his head off.
