My companion settled himself in his chair, rested his head on his hand, and closed his eyes. I remained silent, watching him. His cigar had gone out; so had mine. Once or twice a slight quiver crossed his lips, then his teeth would close tight, and again his face would relapse into calm impassiveness. At this instant the curtains of the smoking-room parted and the Pullman porter entered. "Your berth's all ready, Major," said the porter. My companion rose from his chair, straightened his leg, held out his band, and said: "You can understand now, sir, how I feel about these continued outrages. I don't mean to say that every man is like Aleck, but I do mean to say that Aleck would never have been as loyal as he is but for the way my father brought him up. Good-night, sir." He was gone before I could do more than express my thanks for his confidence. It was just as well--any further word of mine would have been superfluous. Even my thanks seemed out of place. In a few minutes the porter returned with, "Lower Four's all ready, sir." "All right, I'm coming. Oh, porter." "Yes, sir." "Porter, come closer. Who is that gentleman I've been talking to?" "That's Major Sam Garnett, sir." "Was he in the war?" "Yes, sir, he was, for a fact. He was in de Cavalry, sir, one o' Morgan's Raiders. Got more'n six bullets in him now. I jes' done helped him off wid his wooden leg. It was cut off below de knee. His old man Aleck most generally takes care of dat leg. He didn't come wid him dis trip. But he'll be on de platform in de mornin' a-waitin' for him." MARNY'S SHADOW If you know the St. Nicholas--and if you don't you should make its acquaintance at once--you won't breakfast upstairs in that gorgeous room overlooking the street where immaculate, smilelees waiters move noiselessly about, limp palms droop in the corners, and the tables are lighted with imitation wax candles burning electric wicks hooded by ruby-colored shades, but you will stumble down a dark, crooked staircase to the left of the office-desk, push open a swinging, green baize door studded with brass tacks, pass a corner of the bar resplendent in cut glass, and with lowered head slip into a little box of a place built under the sidewalk. Here of an afternoon thirsty gentlemen sip their cocktails or sit talking by the hour, the smoke from their cigars drifting in long lines out the open door leading to the bar, and into the caffè beyond. Here in the morning hungry habitues take their first meal--those whose life-tickets are punched with much knowledge of the world, and who, therefore, know how much shorter is the distance from where they sit to the chef's charcoal fire. Marny has one of these same ragged life-tickets bearing punch-marks made the world over, and so whenever I journey his way we always breakfast together in this cool, restful retreat, especially of a Sunday morning.