The porter banished the hope as a vanity. Little he knew how eagerly the young castaways from that wrecked taxicab desired to be a bridal couple, and to catch this train. But the Englishman was restive again: "Pawtah! I say, pawtah!" "Yassah!" "What time are we due in San Francisco?" "San Francisco? San Francisco? We are doo thah the evenin' of the fo'th day. This bein' Monday, that ought to bring us in abote Thuzzday evenin'." The Yankee felt called upon to check the foreign usurper. "Porrterr!" "Yassah!" "Don't let that fellow monopolize you. He probably won't tip you at all." The porter grew confidential: "Oh, I know his kind, sah. They don't tip you for what you do do, but they're ready letter writers to the Sooperintendent for what you don't do." "Pawtah! I say, pawtah!" "Here, porrterr." The porter tried to imitate the Irish bird, and be in two places at once. The American had a coin in his hand. The porter caught the gleam of it, and flitted thither. The Yankee growled: "Don't forget that I'm on the train, and when we get to 'Frisco there may be something more." The porter had the coin in his hand. Its heft was light. He sighed: "I hope so." The Englishman was craning his head around owlishly to ask: "I say, pawtah, does this train ever get wrecked?" "Well, it hasn't yet," and he murmured to the Yankee, "but I has hopes." The Englishman's voice was querulous again. "I say, pawtah, open a window, will you? The air is ghastly, abso-ripping-lutely ghastly." The Yankee growled: "No wonder we had the Revolutionary War!" Then he took from his pocket an envelope addressed to Ira Lathrop & Co., and from the envelope he took a contract, and studied it grimly. The envelope bore a Chinese stamp. The porter, as he struggled with an obstinate window, wondered what sort of passenger fate would send him next. CHAPTER III IN DARKEST CHICAGO The castaways from the wrecked taxicab hurried along the doleful street. Both of them knew their Chicago, but this part of it was not their Chicago. They hailed a pedestrian, to ask where the nearest street car line might be, and whither it might run. He answered indistinctly from a discreet distance, as he hastened away. Perhaps he thought their question merely a footpad's introduction to a sandbagging episode. In Chicago at night one never knows. "As near as I can make out what he said, Marjorie," the lieutenant pondered aloud, "we walk straight ahead till we come to Umtyump Street, and there we find a Rarara car that will take us to Bloptyblop Avenue. I never heard of any such streets, did you?" "Never," she panted, as she jog-trotted alongside his military pace. "Let's take the first car we meet, and perhaps the conductor can put us off at the street where the minister lives." "Perhaps." There was not much confidence in that "perhaps."