Two hours later we were in the railroad yards waiting for my train to be made up. There were still about fifteen minutes left, and Red was lecturing the kid. "See here, kid," I heard him saying; "what's you learnt since I've had you--en'thing?" "Bet cher life I has!" the little fellow returned, with an assumed dignity that made even Red smile. "Well, how much? Rattle it off now, quick!" The boy began to count on his fingers: "Batterin', one; sloppin' up, two; three-card trick, three; an'--an'--that song 'n' dance, four--four; an'--an' enhalin' cig'rettes, five--five--" Here he stopped and asked if he should take the next hand. "Yes, go on; let's have the hull of it." "Well, then, I knows that cuss-word you taught me--that long one, you know; that's six, ain't it? Oh, yes, 'n' I knows that other cuss-word that that parson told us was never forgiven--remember, don't you? Well, that's seven--seven. I guess that's about all--jus' an even seven." "You sure that's all, kid?" "Well, darn it, Red, ain't that enough fer a prushun? You don't know much more yerself--no, you don't, 'n' you's three times old's I am"; and he began to pout. "Now, kid, d' you know what I wants you to do?" "Bet cher life I do! Ain' cher be'n tellin' me fer the las' year? You wants me to be a blowed-in-the-glass stiff. Ain't them the words?" "No, kid. I've changed my mind. Yer goin' home now, ain' cher?" "Jus' fer a little while. I'm comin' back to you, ain't I?" "No, you ain't, kid. Yer goin' home fer good. Cigarette's goin' to take you, 'n' you mustn't come back. Listenin'?" "Say, Red, has you gone bughouse? I never heerd you talk like that in my life." "See here, kid,"--and there was a firmer tone in his voice,--"we ain't foolin' now--understan'? An' in about five minnits you'll be gone. Now, I wants you to promise that ye'll ferget ev'ry darn thing I've taught you. Listenin'?" The kid was gazing down the track. "Listenin'?" Red cried again. The kid turned and looked at him. "Can't I enhale cig'rettes any more? Has I got to ferget them, too?" "Well, kid, you _kin_ tell yer mother that I says you kin do that--but that's all. Now, 'll you promise?" "Gosh, Red, it'll be hard work!" "Can't help it--_you got to do it_. You don't wanter be like me. You wanter be somethin' dead fine--'spectable." "Ain't you somethin' dead fine? I heerd 'Frisco Shorty say onc't you was the fliest bloke in yer line west o' Denver." "You don't understan', kid"; and he stamped his foot. "I mean like yer mother. Listenin'? Well, 'll you promise?" The kid nodded his head, but there was a surprise in his eyes which he could not conceal. The train was at last ready, and we had to be quick. "Well, Cig, so long; take care o' yerself. Be good to the kid." Then he turned to the boy. It was the tenderest good-by I have ever seen between a prushun and his jocker. A kiss, a gentle stroke on his shoulder, and he helped him climb into the box-car.