"Why, do you think I'd lie about it?" "Certainly not," I protested, alarmed at this violent deduction from my remark. "If I didn't buy a ticket, where's my money gone to?" "You may have lost it before you got into the car." "No, I didn't. I had it, I know, after I sot down here. You don't think I'd try to cheat--do you?" "Why, no! I didn't think of such a thing." "Well, madam, have you found your ticket?" asked the conductor, returning from the rear of the car. "Hain't seen hide nor hair on't." "Just get out of the seat and shake yourself. If you had a ticket at all, it is here somewhere," added the gentlemanly official. "Do you think I didn't have no ticket?" demanded Mrs. Whippleton, pursing up her lips to express her wounded feelings. "I don't know; jump up, and we will see." I left my seat, and with a labored effort the old lady followed my example. The conductor searched on the floor, and in the chair, overhauled the bundles, and turned up the back of the seat, but with no better success than had attended our previous efforts. "Sartin 'tain't there," said the old lady, as she worked herself into her seat again. "No, it is not. Are you sure you had a ticket?" "Do you think I'd lie about it?" "Perhaps you lost it before you got into the car." "No, I didn't. I had it while I sot here. I reckon you lost it when you stirred up my things. If you hadn't teched 'em, it would have been all right." "Well, madam, I want your ticket or your fare." "But I hain't got no ticket." "Then give me twelve dollars." "Twelve dollars!" ejaculated the old lady. "Do you think I'm made of money?" "I don't know that I care what you are made of, if you pay your fare." "But I've spent all my money. I hain't got twelve dollars. Besides, I don't want to pay twice." "If you find your ticket, I will give you back your money." "I tell you I hain't got twelve dollars. You can't hatch wooden eggs." "Then you must leave the car, madam." "Leave the car! And not go back to Chicago?" "I must have your ticket or your fare before we stop next time," said the conductor, passing on. CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH PHIL IS CHIVALROUS, BUT HAS HIS EYES OPENED. I thought that the conductor was rather hard on the old lady, though I was willing to allow that his duty admitted of no compromise. "Did you ever hear the like on't?" exclaimed the old lady. "Put me out of the car! He's a mean man, and I hate mean folks wus'n pizen." "I suppose he has his duty to perform," I mildly suggested. "'Tain't his duty to put a lone and onprotected woman out of the car; and he wouldn't do it if my son Charles was here."