"But I don't," said Patsy, taking courage as he arrayed himself, with a clear conscience, on the defensive. "Are you in the habit of carrying people on the Denver Limited who have no transportation?" "No, sir." "Then, how does it happen that you carried a woman from Galesburg to Chicago last night who had neither ticket nor money, so far as we know? It will do you no good to deny it, for I have the report of a special agent before me, and--" "I have no desire to deny it, sir. All I deny is that this is your business." "What?" yelled the official. "I beg your pardon, sir. I should not have spoken in that way; but what I wish to say and wish you to understand is that I owe you no explanation." "I stand for the company, sir." "So do I, and have stood as many years as you have months. I have handled as many dollars for them as you have ever seen dimes, and, what's more to the point, I stand ready to quit the moment the management loses confidence in me, and with the assurance of a better job. Can all the great men say as much?" The force and vehemence of the excited and indignant little Irishman caused the "management" to pause in its young career. "Will you tell me why you carried this woman who had no ticket?" "No. I have rendered unto Cæsar that which is Cæsar's. For further particulars, see my report," and with that Patsy walked out. "Let's see, let's see," said the "management"; "'Two passengers, Galesburg to Chicago, one ticket, one cash fare.' What an ass I've made of myself; but, just wait till I catch that Hawkshaw." CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH "_Always together in sunshine and rain, Facing the weather atop o' the train, Watching the meadows move under the stars; Always together atop o' the cars._" Patsy was just singing it soft and low to himself, and not even thinking of the song, for he was not riding "atop o' the cars" now. With his arm run through the bail of his nickel-plated, white light, he was taking the numbers and initials of the cars in the Denver Limited. He was a handsome fellow, and the eight or ten years that had passed lightly over his head since he came singing himself into the office of the general manager to ask for a pass over a competing line, had rounded out his figure, and given him a becoming mustache, but they had left just a shade of sadness upon his sunny face. The little mother whom he used to visit at Council Bluffs had fallen asleep down by the dark Missouri, and he would not see her again until he reached the end of his last run. And that's what put the shadow upon his sunny face. The white light, held close to his bright, new uniform, flashed over his spotless linen, and set his buttons ablaze. "Ah there, my beauty! any room for dead-heads to-night?" Patsy turned to his questioner, closed his train-book and held out his hand: "Always room for the Irish; where are you tagged for?" "The junction." "But we don't stop there."