the car and languidly glanced from one to another of the occupants, as though making a mental calculation of the tips he would receive, when his eyes fell on the poorly-clad figure of Bob, holding his box of lunch on his knees.
With an exclamation of surprise, the porter hastened to where the lad was sitting.
"What you-all doin' in hyar?" he demanded harshly.
The tone in which the question was asked now caused the other passengers, who had hitherto been too busy getting themselves comfortably settled to notice Bob, to turn their gaze upon him.
"I'm going to Chicago," returned Bob.
But the hostile look on the porter's face scared him, and he could not help a tremor that crept into his voice as he made his reply.
"Whar's yer ticket?" snarled the negro.
Reaching into his pocket, Bob drew forth the long strip of paper and presented it to the officious porter.
"The ticket's all right," grunted the man. "Now, whar's youah parlah cyar ticket?"
"My what?" asked Bob.
"Youah pariah cyar ticket."
"That's all the ticket I have," returned Bob. "Isn't that enough? I told the man I wanted a chair-car ticket, and that's what he gave me."
"Huh! I thought so. This ain't no chair cyar.
