“Oh, that’s all right,” returned the offender with easy good nature, making himself at home in Section 4. “Tell the company to send in its bill. No use jawing about it.” “You’ll have to get off, sir.” “That’s right—at Tucson.” “No, sir. You’ll have to get off here. I have no authority to let you ride.” “Didn’t I hear you say the train was late? Don’t you think you’d arrive earlier at the end of your run if your choo-choo got to puffing?” “You’ll have to get off, sir.” “I hate to disoblige,” murmured the owner of the jingling spurs, the dusty corduroys, and the big, gray hat, putting his feet leisurely on the cushion in front of him. “But doesn’t it occur to you that you are a man of one idea?” “This is the Coast Limited. It doesn’t stop for anybody—not even for the president of the road.” “You don’t say! Well, I ce’tainly appreciate the honor you did me in stopping to take me on.” His slight drawl was quite devoid of concern. “But you had no right to flag the train. Can’t you understand _anything?_” groaned the conductor. “You explain it again to me, sonny. I’m surely thick in the haid,” soothed the intruder, and listened with bland good-humor to the official’s flow of protest. “Well—well! Disrupted the whole transcontinental traffic, didn’t I? And me so innocent, too. Now, this is how I figured it out. Here’s me in a hurry to get to Tucson. Here comes your train a-foggin’—also and likewise hittin’ the high spots for Tucson. Seemed like we ought to travel in company, and I was some dubious she’d forget to stop unless I flagged her. Wherefore, I aired my bandanna in the summer breeze.” “But you don’t understand.” The conductor began to explain anew as to a dull child. “It’s against the law. You’ll get into trouble.” “Put me in the calaboose, will they?” “It’s no joke.” “Well, it does seem to be worrying you,” Mr. Collins conceded. “Don’t mind me. Free your mind proper.” The conductor, glancing about nervously, noticed that passengers were smiling broadly. His official dignity was being chopped to mince-meat. Back came his harassed gaze to the imperturbable Collins with the brown, sun-baked face and the eyes blue and untroubled as an Arizona sky. Out of a holster attached to the sagging belt that circled the corduroy trousers above his hips gleamed the butt of a revolver. But in the last analysis the weapon of the occasion was purely a moral one. The situation was one not covered in the company’s rule book, and in the absence of explicit orders the trainman felt himself unequal to that unwavering gaze and careless poise. Wherefore, he retreated, muttering threats of what the company would do. “Now, if I had only known it was against the law. My thick haid’s always roping trouble for me,” the plainsman confided to the Pullman conductor, with twinkling eyes.