“The son-of-a-gun! Now, the critter showed durned poor judgment, didn’t he?” The brakeman swore mildly, and disappeared. In a few minutes he returned, carefully spat in the empty stove, and the train casually moved on again. Seeing a paper lying in the aisle, as he walked down the car, the brakeman stooped and picked it up. His eye fell upon a large red seal, and much elaborate writing. With a puzzled expression he read the document. “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. DEPARTMENT OF STATE. “To all whom these presents may concern, Greeting. I, the undersigned, Secretary of State, of the United States of America, hereby request all whom it may concern to permit—Stephen Loring—a citizen of the United States, safely and freely to pass, and in case of need to give him all lawful aid and protection.” “It must be a passport,” he thought. “First one I ever seed, though. I wonder who might Stephen Loring be.” His eye fell upon the appended description: “Age, 23 yrs., 4 mos. Stature, 6 ft. 1. Forehead, Broad. Eyes, Brown. Nose, Irregular. Mouth, Wide. Chin, Medium. Hair, Black. Complexion, Ruddy. Face, Square.” He looked about at the men in the car until his eye fell on Stephen. “That’s him, all right,” he thought. “I should say it would be sort of inconvenient to have such a good description to fill!” He went to Stephen and touched him on the shoulder. “Hey, stranger, I reckon this belongs to you.” Loring, surprised, took the proffered paper. Then he felt in the pocket of his coat. “I think it must have fallen out of my pocket. Much obliged!” he exclaimed. It was an old passport, expired ten years since, but Stephen carried it about with him as a means of identification in case of accident. “How did you know that this was mine?” he asked the brakeman from idle curiosity. The man pointed with an exceedingly dirty thumb to the description. “I ain’t no detective, but I reckon that fits pretty well.” Then he nodded to Loring and walked away.