"Got any money?" inquired the policeman, ignoring the boy's manner. "Surely." And Bob drew forth the precious ten dollars he had managed to save from the pittance his guardian had paid him and all that remained from the money the magistrate had given him. "All right. Come with me. I'll show you," responded the official, assured by the sight of the money that Bob was not trying to steal a ride on the train. Quickly the two made their way to the ticket office. "Ticket for this youngster," announced the policeman. "Where to?" asked the agent. "Chicago, in a chair car," answered Bob. "'Leven thirty," returned the man in the ticket office, turning to his rack and taking down a long strip of paper, which he stamped rapidly. With trembling fingers, Bob counted out the money, and shoved it through the opening in the window. "Correct," muttered the agent, as he counted the roll of bills. "Now hurry, or you won't get your train." As Bob received the amazingly long ticket, his breast swelled with pride. Its possession meant the beginning of his long-cherished dream, and he started to study it, when the voice of the officer warned him: "Come this way, kid. Go through gate No. 3. You can read your ticket when you get on the train; you'll have time enough before you reach Chicago. Good luck on your ranch," he added in a kindly banter. But Bob had no time to reply, for the trainmen were already shouting their "All aboard for Chicago," and it was only by running down the platform that he was able to get on a car just as the wheels began to move. The car in which Bob found himself was upholstered in dark green, and the woodwork was of polished mahogany. Never had he seen anything so magnificent, and as he sank into a high-back seat, he uttered a sigh of contentment. But he was not allowed to enjoy his luxury long. While he was gazing with wide-staring eyes at everything about him, a colored porter entered 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 parlah cyar ticket."