"Well, to be frank with you, you are not a tramp. You've got money, and you had red wine with your supper, or your dinner, as you would say." The man laughed, a soundless laugh, and tried to look sad. "You've got a gold signet ring in your right trousers pocket." The man worked his fingers and when the Philosopher thought he must have the ring in his hand, he caught hold of the man's wrist, jerked the hand from his pocket, and the ring rolled upon the platform. When the man cut off the end of his cigar the Philosopher had seen a white line around one of the fingers of the man's sea-browned hand. Real tramps, thought the Philosopher, don't cut off the ends of their cigars. They bite them off, and save the bite. They don't throw a half-smoked cigar away, but put it, burning if necessary, in their pocket. "What do you mean?" demanded the man, indignantly. "Pick up your ring." "I have a mind to smash you." "Do, and you can ride." "You've got your nerve." "You haven't. Why did you stare at that lady's feet, when she was climbing into the car?" "That's not your business." "It's all my business now." "I'll report you for this." The man started to walk past the big station master, but a strong hand was clapped to the man's breast pocket and when it came away it held a small pocket memorandum. "See what's in that, Patsy," said the Philosopher, passing the book to the conductor, who had gone forward for the decision. The man made a move, as if he would snatch the book, but the big hand at his throat twisted the flannel shirt, and choked him. Patsy, holding the book in the glare of his white light, read the record of a man who had been much away from home. He had, according to the book, ridden with many conductors, whose names were familiar to Patsy, and had, upon divers occasions, noticed that sometimes some people rode without paying fare. In another place Patsy learned that trainmen and other employees drank beer, or other intoxicating beverages. A case in point was a couple of brakemen on local who, after unloading a half-dozen reapers and a threshing machine at Mendota, had gone into a saloon with the shipper and killed their thirst. While Patsy was gleaning this interesting information the man writhed and twisted, fought and fumed, but it was in vain, for the hand of the Philosopher was upon his throat. "Let me go," gasped the man, "an' we'll call it square, an' I won't report you." "Oh! how good of you." "Let me go, I say, you big brute." "I wanted to let you go a while ago, and you wouldn't have it." The man pulled back like a horse that won't stand hitched and the button flew from his cheap flannel shirt. "I'm a goat," said the Philosopher, stroking the man's chest with his big right hand, "if he hasn't got on silk underwear." "Come now, you fellahs," said the man changing his tune, "let me go and you'll always have a friend at Court."