"Why?" he demanded, intrigued by my preoccupation. "Nothing. It just reminded me of something." Then he lifted a hand and smote himself on the thigh. "Me, too! By jinks! Say, I'd almost forgot that." He hitched his chair upon me; held me down with a forefinger. "Listen. That was funny. It was one night--last fall. It was just after Number Seventeen had pulled out, westbound, about one-forty in the morning. There wasn't anything else till six-one. Them are always the hardest hours. A fellow's got to stay awake, see, and nothin' to keep him--unless maybe a coyote howlin' a mile off, or maybe a bum knockin' around among the box cars on the sidin', or, if it's cold, the stove to tend. That's all. Unless you put a record on the old phonograph and hit 'er up a few minutes now and then. Dead? Say, boy!" "Well, this night it was a bum. I'm sittin' there in the coop, countin' my fingers and listenin' to Limon calling off car numbers to Denver--just like that I'm sittin'--when I hear somethin' out in the waitin' room. Not very loud.--Well, I go out there, and there's the bum. Come right into the waitin' room. "Bum! If he wasn't the father and mother and brother and sister of the original bum, I'll eat my hat. Almost a Jew-lookin' guy, and he'd saw hard service. But he's got a kind o' crazy glitter in his eye. "'Well,' says I, just like that, 'Well, what do you want?' "He don't whine; he don't handle the pan. He's got that look in his eye. "'My woman is out in them box cars,' says he. 'I'm goin' to bring her in here where it's warm.' That's what he says. Not '_can_ I bring her in?' but '_goin_' to bring her in!' From a _hobo_! "Can you imagine? It makes me think. It comes to me the guy is really off his trolley. To keep him calm I says, 'Well--' "He goes out. 'I'm shed o' _him_,' I says to myself. Not a bit. About three minutes and here he comes trottin' back, sure enough, bringin' a woman with him. Now Mister--What's-y'r-name--prepare to laugh. That there woman--listen--make up your face--she's a _nigger_! "He says she ain't a nigger. "'Mexican?' says I. "'No,' says he. "I give her another look, but I can't make much out of her, except she's some kind of a nigger, anyhow. She's sittin' on the bench far away from the light, and she's dressed in a second-hand horse blanket, a feed sack, and a bran' new pair of ar'tics. And she don't say a word. "'Well,' says I, 'if she ain't some kind of nigger, I'll eat my--' "But there he is, all of a sudden, squarin' off in front o' me, his mug stuck up and his eyes like a couple o' headlights. Imagine! The guy ain't got enough meat on his bones for a rest'rant chicken. Honest to God, he looked like he'd been through a mile o' sausage mill. But crazy as a bedbug. And there's somethin' about a crazy man-- "'Hold y'r gab!' says he. To _me_! That gets my goat. "'Just for that,' says I, 'you can get out o' this station. And don't forget to take your _woman_ along with you. Get out!'