Loring had no hat. In Arizona, a man may go without his trousers, and be called eccentric. To go without a hat is ungentlemanly. Consequently the three other white men whom McKay had collected kept themselves aloof, and Stephen, crawling into a seat beside a voluble Chinaman, dozed off in misery, wondering whether the murmuring buzz that he heard was in his head, or in the car wheels. The Chinaman looked down at Stephen’s unshaven face and matted hair, and grinned pleasantly.
“He allee samee broke,” he murmured to himself, crooning with pleasure.
For six hours the train had been plowing its way across the desert, backing, stopping, groaning, wheezing. The blue line of the hills seemed little nearer than in the morning. Only the hills behind seemed farther away. Now and then, far out in the sage-brush, a film of dust hung low in the air, telling of some sheep outfit driving to new grazing lands. On the side of the train next Loring, a trail followed the line of the telegraph poles. Wherever the trail crossed the track and ran for a while on the opposite side, Stephen felt a childish anger at it, for otherwise he could amuse himself by counting the skeletons of horses and cattle, which every mile or so made splatches of pure white against the gray white of the dust. The passengers slouched in the hot seats, rolling countless cigarettes with the dexterity which marks the Southwesterner, drawing the string of the “Durham” sack with a quick jerk of the teeth, at the close of the operation. The air of the car reeked with smoke. At each little station-shed new men joined the crowd, being received with looks of silent sympathy and invariably proffering a request for the “makings.” When this was received, they resignedly settled on the torn black leather of the seats, trying to accomplish the impossible feat of resting their necks on the edge of the backs without cramping their legs against the seats in front of them.
The train stopped suddenly with a jerk which was worse than usual, as if the engine had stumbled over itself. The brakeman, a target for many jests, hurried through the car.
“What have we stopped for now?” drawled McKay. “To enjoy the scenic effect?”
“Horse runned along ahead of the engine and bust his leg in the trestle,” laconically answered the brakeman.
“The son-of-a-gun! Now, the critter showed durned poor judgment, didn’t he?”
The brakeman swore mildly, and disappeared. In a few minutes he returned, carefully spat in the empty stove, and the train casually moved on again.
Seeing a paper lying in the aisle, as he walked down the car, the brakeman stooped and picked it up. His eye fell upon a large red seal, and much elaborate writing. With a puzzled expression he read the document.
“United States of America. Department of State.
“To all whom these presents may concern, Greeting. I, the undersigned, Secretary of State, of the United States of America, hereby request all whom it may concern to permit—Stephen Loring—a citizen of the United States, safely and freely to pass, and in case of need to give him all lawful aid and protection.”
“It must be a passport,” he thought. “First one I ever seed, though. I wonder who might Stephen Loring be.”
His eye fell upon the appended description:
“Age, 23 yrs., 4 mos.
Stature, 6 ft. 1.
Forehead, Broad.
Eyes, Brown.
Nose, Irregular.
Mouth, Wide.
Chin, Medium.
Hair, Black.
Complexion, Ruddy.
Face, Square.”
He looked about at the men in the car until his eye fell on Stephen.
“That’s him, all right,” he thought. “I should say it would be sort of inconvenient to have such a good description to fill!”
He went to Stephen and touched him on the shoulder. “Hey, stranger, I reckon this belongs to you.”
Loring, surprised, took the proffered paper. Then he felt in the pocket of his coat.
“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.”
Loring took a deep pull at the flask.
“Hey, Chink, have some?” continued McKay.
Wah smiled and shook his head.
“Don’t drink, eh? Well, I’ll bet then that you are strong on dope,” said McKay, as he returned the flask to his pocket.
Night began to turn the color of the hills to a rich cobalt. Now and then the train crawled past shacks whose evening fires were beginning to twinkle in the dusk. Little camps scattered in the niches of the foothills showed gray and blurred. Jagged masses of rock, broken by cuts and hollows, now overshadowed the train. Giant cacti, growing at impossible angles from pinnacles and crevasses, loomed against the sky line. As the hills shut in, the roar of the train echoed of a sudden louder and louder where the desert runs flat as a board to the hills, and then with no transition becomes the hills.
“Only fifteen miles more now, boys,” sang out McKay; “but it may take two hours,” he added under his breath.
Cheered by this announcement, one of the Mexicans groped under his seat and produced a large nondescript bundle, which, after sundry cuttings of string, and unwrapping of paper, resolved itself into a guitar. Then, after fishing in his pockets, he produced a mouth-organ with two clamps attached. Loring, for want of better occupation, watched him. The man deftly fastened the harmonica to the