He remembered his drunken impression of the night before that there was, before he should leave, something more to do, or to fetch. His hand went to his pocket. Half a dozen silver dollars were there, no more. In his wallet, which he searched under the light, were two five dollar bills. By now he could hear the rumble of the Overland. Outside the station two or three Mexicans were lounging. Half a dozen renegade Indians were faithfully arriving with their bead chains and baskets. The waiting-room was empty. The Inger went in the waiting-room and closed the door. The ticket agent stood behind his window, counting that which ticket-agents perpetually count. The Inger thrust his own head and shoulders through the window, and with them went his revolver. “I’m Inger of Inch,” he said. “I guess you know me, don’t you? Just you give me a through ticket and all the trimmings to Chicago, till I can get to a bank, or I’ll blow all your brains out of you. Can you understand?” The ticket agent glanced up, looked into the muzzle, and went on quietly counting. “All right, Mr. Inger,” he said. “I guess the Flag-pole can stand that much. But you hadn’t ought to be so devilish lordly in your ways,” he complained. The Inger pocketed his revolver, and smiled—the slow, indolent, adorable smile which had made all Inch and the men at the mines his friends. “If you feel that way about it, my friend—” he said, and leaned forward and added something, his hand outstretched. The man nodded, shook the hand, and went to his ticket rack. The Inger wrote out a message to his father, instructing him to pay to the agent a sum which he named; and to his bank he scribbled and posted a brief note. Then as the train pulled in, he turned back to where Lory waited. “It’s all right,” he told her. “Everything’s all right,” he added jubilantly. “Come on!” Beside the train she would have taken his hand, but he followed her. “I’m coming in,” he said brusquely, and in the coach sat down beside her in her seat. Then she turned to him, and in her voice were the tremor and the breathlessness which had been there for an instant when, in the morning, she had tried to say her thanks: “I wish’t I could thank you,” she said. “I wish’t I could!” He met her eyes, and he longed inexpressibly for a way of speech which should say the thing that he meant to try to say. “You know, don’t you,” he asked awkwardly, “that I’d do anything to make up—” “Don’t,” she begged. “I know. Don’t you think I don’t know.” With this his courage mounted. “Tell me,” he burst out. “Will you tell me? Am I different—ain’t I different—from the way you thought?” It was blind enough, but she seemed to understand. “You’ve treated me whiter to-day than I’ve ever been treated,” she said, very low. “Now good-bye!”