pleasant variety of beetle. He seemed about to make some remark, but, instead, got up and looked through the open window.
"Where's that porter?" Mike heard him say.
The porter came skimming down the platform at that moment.
"Porter."
"Sir?"
"Are those frightful boxes of mine in all right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Because, you know, there'll be a frightful row if any of them get lost."
"No chance of that, sir."
"Here you are, then."
"Thank you, sir."
The youth drew his head and shoulders in, stared at Mike again, and finally sat down. Mike noticed that he had nothing to read, and wondered if he wanted anything; but he did not feel equal to offering him one of his magazines. He did not like the looks of him particularly. Judging by appearances, he seemed to carry enough side for three. If he wanted a magazine, thought Mike, let him ask for it.
The other made no overtures, and at the next stop got out. That explained his magazineless condition. He was only travelling a short way.
"Good business," said Mike to himself. He had all the Englishman's love of a carriage to himself.
The train was just moving out of the station when his eye was suddenly caught by the stranger's bag, lying snugly in the rack.
And here, I regret to say, Mike acted from the best motives, which is always fatal.
He realised in an instant what had happened. The fellow had forgotten his bag.
Mike had not been greatly fascinated by the stranger's looks; but, after all, the most supercilious person on earth has a right to his own property. Besides, he might have been quite a nice fellow when you got to
