"Miss Angelica likely to be in the bunch?" says I. Chester pinks up at that and tries to make out he hadn't thought anything about Angelica's bein' there at all. But I'd heard a lot about this particular young lady, and when I sees the colour on Chester his plan was as clear as if the entries was posted on a board. "All right, Chetty," says I; "have it any way you say. I'll be up early Saturday night." So that's what I was doin' in the smoker on the five-nine, with my gym. suit and gaslight clothes in a kit bag up on the rack. Just as they shuts the gates and gives the word to pull out, in strolls the last man aboard and piles in alongside of me. I wouldn't have noticed him special if he hadn't squinted at the ticket I'd stuck in the seat back, and asked if I was goin' to get off at that station. "I was thinkin' some of it when I paid my fare," says I. "Ah!" says he, kind of gentle and blinkin' his eyes. "That is my station, too. Might I trouble you to remind me of the fact when we arrive?" "Sure," says I; "I'll wake you up." He gives me another blink, pulls a little readin' book out of his pocket, slumps down into the seat, and proceeds to act like he'd gone into a trance. Say, I didn't need more'n one glimpse to size him up for a freak. The Angora haircut was tag enough--reg'lar Elbert Hubbard thatch he was wearin', all fluffy and wavy, and just clearin' his coat collar. That and the artist's necktie, not to mention the eye glasses with the tortoise shell rims, put him in the self advertisin' class without his sayin' a word. Outside of the frills, he wa'n't a bad lookin' chap, and sizable enough for a 'longshoreman, only you could tell by the lily white hands and the long fingernails that him and toil never got within speakin' distance. "Wonder what particular brand of mollycoddle he is?" thinks I. Now there wa'n't any call for me to put him through the catechism, just because he was headed for the same town I was; but somehow I had an itch to take a rise out of him. So I leans over and gets a peek at the book. "Readin' po'try, eh?" says I, swallowin' a grin. "Beg pardon?" says he, kind of shakin' himself together. "Yes, this is poetry--Swinburne, you know," and he slumps down again as if he'd said all there was to say. But when I starts out to be sociable you can't head me off that way. "Like it?" says I. "Why, yes," says he, "very much, indeed. Don't you?" He thought he had me corked there; but I comes right back at him. "Nix!" says I. "Swinny's stuff always hit me as bein' kind of punk." "Really!" says he, liftin' his eyebrows. "Perhaps you have been unfortunate in your selections. Now take this, from the Anactoria----" And say, I got what was comin' to me then. He tears off two or three yards of it, all about moonlight and stars and kissin' and lovin', and a lot of gush like that. Honest, it would give you an ache under your vest! "There!" says he. "Isn't that beautiful imagery?"