“My train is twenty minutes late now,” he accused, “and that jay town is one of them places where a lot of lame old ladies tries to board the train every time you stop there. It takes a Jaffa Junction prominent citizen five minutes to climb into a coach!” Mr. Copewell politely attempted to simulate an interest in the characteristics of Jaffa Junction’s prominent citizens. “Indeed?” he said. “Captain” Fallow went on curtly. “I ask you as a favor to hop off quick when we get there. I’ll have the rear vestibule open and you can fly out as soon as you feel the train slowing down. Your place will be our only stop this side of Perryville, see? If you can jump down without our coming to a dead stop, it will save time.” Mr. Copewell smiled. “My dear Captain,” he reassured, “I hold various championships for getting off trains. To-night I mean to break all my past records. I’m in a hurry myself.” “Captain” Fallow’s face softened. “Remember,” he emphasized, “first stop is your destination.” In view of the fact that he was on his way to meet the one lady of his heart and to foil Fate and Family, Mr. Copewell might have been presumed to be wide awake. In point of actuality, the reverse was true. Last night, anxiety and indignation had murdered sleep. To-day, action and preparation had assaulted his vitality. Now, with success at his elbow, a delightful languor stole upon him. Gradually his rosy dreams became rosier, more somnolent! His head fell on his chest. Behold, the bridegroom fell snoring! * * * * * Some time later the conductor passed through the train and, arriving at the front vestibule of the front coach, made a discovery. There, crouching very modestly in the shaded corner next to the rear end of the baggage-car, was a somewhat undersized youth with straight, black hair and an expression of innocence which somehow did not seem to sit naturally on his rat-like countenance. The conductor eyed him accusingly. “Where’s your ticket?” he inquired without preamble. The youth smiled with a disarming candor. “Honest, pal,” he confided, “you kin search me! I was just goin’ through me clothes fer it when you come out. I was just sayin’ ter meself, ‘Son,’ says I, ‘where in —— _is_ dat ducket?’” “Ducket, eh!” repeated “Captain” Fallow. There was a pitiless, inquisitorial note in his voice, which the young man construed as ominous. The young man bit his lip in annoyance. It was borne in upon him that he had made a most unfortunate choice of words. In police glossaries the term “ducket” is defined as thief and hobo vernacular for a railroad-ticket.