"I reckon not," replied the other. "This is Selma Junction, and this here train is due in New York at five. Who be you?" "Well," answered McAllister, "I'm just an humble citizen of New York, forced by circumstances to return to the city as soon as possible." "Reckon you're one o' them play-actors, bean't ye?" "You've got it," returned McAllister. "Fact is, I've just been playing Henry VIII--on the road." "I've heard tell on't," commented the rustic. "But I ain't never seen it. Shakespeare, ain't it?" "Yes, Shakespeare," admitted the clubman. At this moment the milk-train roared in and the teamsters began passing up their cans. There were no passenger coaches--nothing but freight-cars and a caboose. Toward this our friend made his way. There did not seem to be any conductor, and, without making inquiries, McAllister climbed upon the platform and pushed open the door. If warmth was what he desired he soon found it. The end of the car was roughly fitted with half a dozen bunks, two boxes which served for chairs, and some spittoons. A small cast-iron stove glowed red-hot, but while the place was odoriferous, its temperature was grateful to the shivering McAllister. The car was empty save for a gigantic Irishman sitting fast asleep in the farther corner. Our hero laid down his sword, threw off his ulster, and hung his cap upon an adjacent hook. In a moment or two the train started again. Still no one came into the caboose. Now daylight began to filter in through the grimy windows. The sun jumped suddenly from behind a ridge and shot a beam into the face of the sleeper at the other end of the car. Slowly he awoke, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and, catching the glint of silver buttons, gazed stupidly in McAllister's direction. The random glance gradually gave place to a stare of intense amazement. He wrinkled his brows, and leaned forward, scrutinizing with care every detail of McAllister's make-up. The train stopped for an instant and a burly brakeman banged open the door and stepped inside. He, too, hung fire, as it were, at the sight of Henry VIII. Then he broke into a loud laugh. "Who in thunder are _you_?" Before McAllister could reply McGinnis, with a comprehensive smile, made answer: "Shure, 'tis only a prisoner I'm after takin' back to the city!" * * * * * "Mr. McAllister," remarked Conville, two hours later, as the three of them sat in the visitors' room at the club, "I hope you won't say anything about this. You see, I had no business to put a kid like Ebstein on the job, but I was clean knocked out and had to snatch some sleep. I suppose he thought he was doin' a big thing when he nailed you for a burglar. But, after all, the only thing that saved Welch was your fallin' asleep in the Benvolio."