Catty and I had gone down to the express-office to fetch some stock he and his father had ordered from the city, and we happened to be there just as the noon train came in. We planned it so we would be there just when it came in. I don’t know why it is a fellow likes to see trains pull in, but he does. It doesn’t matter a bit whether he’s expecting somebody or not. Just to stand there and hear the train whistle around the bend, and then to see the cowcatcher nose around the corner, and to hear the noise of it coming, and then the rush and swish and grinding of the brakes—is all great. It gets you excited and makes you feel _good_. Catty and I stood watching her come in, and then we stayed to see who got off. There was the usual supply of folks coming from the next town, and old Mrs. Wiggins that had been to visit her daughter in the East, and three drummers—and then The Proprietor. Catty was the one who said he looked as if he was the Proprietor of the Earth, and after a while we cut it down and just called him The Proprietor. He came out of the smoking-car and stood on the platform, looking at the station and the town like a man looks at something he has just bought and isn’t sure he likes. He stood there a minute, and then he came down the steps slow and dignified. I was the first person he spoke to in town. “My young friend,” says he, as polite as pie, “how does one get himself and his luggage to your best hotel?” “We-ell,” says I, kind of embarrassed, “most gits to the best hotel same way they git to the worst. Hain’t but one,” says I. “Indeed,” says he. “Yes,” says I. “There’s two ways of gittin’ there. One is to walk and carry your bag. T’other is to climb onto that there bus of Pazzy Bills’s and ride for a quarter, hand-bags included, trunks a quarter extry.” “Good,” says he. “I shall ride with Mr. Bills. You have a beautiful town, young man. Already I am beginning to admire it.” “It’s kind of hard to admire,” says I. “’Course there’s the standpipe up on the hill. Highest in the country. And there’s Captain Winton’s house. Outside of that, it’s jest a town full of folks.” “Rich farming country,” says he. “Beautiful.” “More beautiful-lookin’ out of a train window,” says I, “than it is from behind a plow.” He laughed a little and tossed me a dime. I don’t know why, ’cause I hadn’t done anything to earn it. I looked at it and then at him and says, “What’s this for?” “Candy,” says he, and right there I started in not to like him very well. I don’t know just why, but there was something about him and the way he tossed it to me that r’iled me up. He turned and walked off to the bus. For half a minute I was going to throw his dime after him, but I didn’t. A dime is a dime, and, no matter how you dislike the fellow it comes from, it ’ll buy just as much, so I stuck it in my pocket and looked after him. He certainly was gaudy.