Towards ten o’clock in the evening Stephen directed his steps to the railroad station, and seating himself on a side-tracked flat car, kicked his heels over the edge, and smoked his last pipeful of tobacco. He jangled some keys in his pocket, pretending to himself that they were money. It was bad enough, he reflected, to be “broke” in the States, where he could talk the language; but here—He looked disconsolately at the throng of Mexicans who were on the platform. “Buenos dies, and que hora? although I am sure I pronounce them well, will not take me very far in the world,” he thought. “It does not matter much where I go; but I certainly must go somewhere. I will board the first freight train that appears, whether it is going north, south, east or west.”

Having come to this determination, he jumped down from the car, and walking over to the bulletin board, ran his finger down the time-table.

“Nine o’clock—train for La Punta. Well, that’s gone. Hello! Here we are—eleven P. M. express for the City of Mexico. I wonder what that asterisk means. Oh, yes, Pullmans only. That would be infinitely more pleasant than the brake-beams of a freight,” he mused, “and for me it would be equally cheap.”

Stephen was a novice at the art of “beating it,” but he possessed two very valuable assets, a keen observation and a vivid imagination. Having thus resolved to travel in state, he returned to his flat car, and set about planning ways and means. A few minutes of solemn thought gave him his first conclusion: that at this time of year the southbound trains would not be running full.

“Therefore there will be many vacant berths,” he thought.

A few more puffs upon his pipe gave him the next link in his plan. “Whether empty, or full, the Pullman company has all the berths down.”

Thought number three: “At night they make long runs, without stopping. Therefore,” thought Stephen, “once on board, and safely tucked in an upper berth, I can travel until morning without being discovered and thrown off the train.”

“Now comes the second part of my problem: how to get on the train and into my berth without being discovered.” He shut his eyes, and visualized a train standing at the station. “Where would the porters stand?” he asked himself.

He thought hard, and remembered that at night the porters generally stand at opposite ends of their cars, so that every alternate set of steps is unguarded.

“Now,” he reflected, “if the berths are down, the curtains will be drawn, therefore there will be little light from the car windows, to bring me into prominence, and the passengers will probably be asleep. All will go well, if the vestibule doors are not locked. But generally on hot nights they are unlocked. Anyhow, I must risk it.”

As he mused over his plan giving it the final touches, the express for the City of Mexico thundered into the station.

With a grating of brakes, and a squish of steam, the heavy train sobbed itself to a stop, the engine dropping from the fire-box a stream of glowing coals between the gleaming steel rails, and blowing forth steam from the exhaust.

“Here’s my train,” thought Loring. “It looks very comfortable.”

He slipped his pipe into his pocket, and stepping back into a shadowy corner, awaited his opportunity.

From the platform arose an irregular murmur of voices, such as always attends the arrival of a train at night. That murmur which, to the passengers lying half awake, sounds so far away, and unreal! He heard the bang and thump of trunks being thrown out of the baggage car. A party of tourists, weighted down with hand-luggage, hurried by him. Even as he thought, the white-jacketed porters stood with their little steps alternately at the right and left ends of their respective cars, so that in the long train there were three unguarded platforms.

A man was rapidly testing and oiling the car wheels. His torch flared yellow-red against the greasy brown of the trucks, and made queer shadows dance on the red varnished surface of the cars.

Stephen tried to make out the name of the car nearest to him. The first four gilt letters showed clearly in the torchlight: “ELDO”—The man with the torch moved nearer. “ELDORADO,” spelled Stephen. “Perhaps the name is a delicate hint to me from Fate.”

The inspector passed on up the train, hitting ringing blows on the wheels with his short, heavy mallet. He tested the last car, then stepped back from the train, swinging his torch around his head as a signal to the engineer.

“It must be now or never,” thought Loring. But which platform to try! At that instant, from the car opposite him, came a great puff of white steam, for a moment almost obscuring the steps from view.

Loring darted forward, and jumped upon the train platform. Anxiously he thrust his shoulder against the vestibule door. It was unlocked. As he gained the vestibule, the car couplings tightened with a jerk, and the train clumsily started. He took a hasty glance down the interior of the car. At the opposite end the porter was closing the vestibule door. The aisle was clear.

Stephen stepped quickly into the car, pulled back the curtain of the nearest section, and stepping on the lower berth, caught hold of the curtain bar, and with one pull swung himself up. In the process, he inadvertently stepped on the fat man in the lower berth. Stephen knew that he was fat, because he felt that way. The man swore sleepily, and twitched the curtain back into place.

“I think that I won’t put my boots out to be cleaned to-night,” said Loring to himself. “It would be tactless.” Then he pulled the blankets up over him, rolled over close to the far side of the berth, and fell asleep, lulled by the hum of the car wheels, pounding southward fifty miles an hour.

Tired out by his vigil of the night before, Stephen slept until it was late. He awoke with a start to find that it was broad daylight. Sleepily he tried to think where he was. His eye fell on the dome of polished mahogany above him, upon the swaying green curtain, and the swinging bellrope. Then he recalled the situation. For a few moments he lay back, blissfully comfortable. His weary muscles were grateful for the rest. Then he roused himself, and peered cautiously out from between the curtains. While he was looking up and down the dusty stretch of carpet in the aisle, the colored porter rapped hard on the woodwork of the lower berth, and proceeded to awake the occupant.

“Last call for breakfast, number twelve, last call; half-past nine, sir, half-past nine.”

Stephen curbed a childlike desire to reach over and pull the kinky hair of the darky.

“I am sure that he would think that I was a ghost,” he laughed to himself.

He could hear the man below him turn over heavily, then grunt, and begin to dress.

“I think I also had better arise,” reflected Loring. He watched the porter until the latter was at the far end of the car, then dropping his feet over the edge of the berth he slid out onto the swaying floor, almost into the arms of the amazed Pullman conductor, who at that instant had entered the car.

“Where did you get on?” gasped the brass-buttoned official. “I didn’t know that there was an ‘upper’ taken in this car.”

“At Los Andes,” answered Stephen, “I was rather tired, so I thought I would not bother you at the time.”

The conductor looked hard at Stephen, and took in at a glance his ragged clothes, dirty shoes, and flannel shirt; then he grinned.

“That was mighty considerate of you, stranger; now let’s have your ticket. We have almost reached our next stop.”

Stephen pretended to feel in his pockets, though he well knew that it was useless. The other people in the train were beginning to stare.

“To be put off a train would be far pleasanter in imagination than in reality,” flashed across Stephen’s mind.

“Hurry up, now,” repeated the conductor. “Where is your ticket?”

“I haven’t any,” Loring blurted out.

“Come on, now, no nonsense! fork up!” insisted the conductor.

“I would gladly, if I had any money,” rejoined Stephen, then with seeming irrelevancy, he added: “How far is it from here to the ‘City’?”

“It is about seven hundred miles,” answered the conductor, “but I am sure you will find it a delightful walk.”

“Last call for breakfast in the dining-car. Last call,” again echoed through the car.

“Better hurry, sir,” said the porter, not realizing the situation, as he passed Stephen.

“Thank you,” said Loring, with a grim smile. “But I think I will refrain from eating this morning.”

A rather heavy faced man, who was sitting near by, laughed audibly. Stephen became the center of interest for the passengers. For them, the little scene was a perfect bonanza, serving to break the monotony of the trip. Loring was conscious of the stare of many eyes, about as effectually concealed behind books and magazines as is an ostrich with its head in the sand.

“Come out into the vestibule with me!” said the conductor, rather gruffly. Stephen followed him in silence. When they were on the platform, the conductor turned and looked at him squarely. Loring noticed that there could be kind lines about the close-set jaw.

“See here,” began the former, “you don’t look to me like a man who is often working this sort of game. I guess you must be sort of up against it, ain’t you?”

Stephen bowed his head slowly, in non-committal agreement.

“Now I don’t like to see a man down and out,” went on the conductor, “unless he is the kind that deserves to be, and you ain’t. Besides, you’re from the States like I am, and so, though I’d lose my job if it were found out, the company is going to set you up to this ride free.”

Stephen’s face lighted with gratitude, as he grasped the man’s hand, and thanked him.

“When did you have anything to eat last?” asked the conductor suddenly.

“Not since yesterday morning,” answered Stephen.

“Well, you go right into that car” (he pointed forward with his thumb) “and eat. I’ll make it all right with the dining-car people.”

“That is too much,” said Loring. “I can’t”—

The conductor cut him short. “Some time when you have the money, you can pay me back. If you don’t ever have it, don’t worry. No, you mustn’t thank me any more. It is just that you are an American, and I don’t like to see a fellow from the States up against it in this Godforsaken land.”

As Loring walked through the train, his blood tingled with the pride of race and citizenship, tingled with the glow that comes or should come to every man, when he realizes the strength of the great brotherhood to which he belongs: realizes that when things are stripped to their elemental facts, and the veneer of international courtesy and friendliness removed, he is standing shoulder to shoulder with his countrymen against the world.

When at last the train drew into the “City,” Stephen said a warm good-bye to his benefactor, then followed the line of passengers out into the street. With no definite purpose in mind, he wandered up and down the city, staring idly into the shop windows. By accident, he found himself in a great plaza. He was pleased with the gaiety.

“If it were not for economic distress, I should be very well off,” he thought. “I must get work somewhere, and immediately.”

He walked up one of the side streets, looking at all the signs, hoping that one might give him a clew. For a long time he saw nothing helpful, and he was on the brink of discouragement, when his eye was attracted by a large gilt umbrella on the next corner, hung out over the street. Beneath it was a Spanish sign to the effect that umbrellas could be bought, sold, or repaired within. In the window was a large placard: “We speak English.”

“If I were skilful with my hands,” thought Loring, “I might get a job repairing here; but I am not skilful with my hands.”

He stood reflecting, his hands deep in his pockets. An idea soon came to him, for he had always been more resourceful than successful.

He walked boldly into the shop, and approached the proprietor. The man began to assume the smile with which he welcomed prospective buyers, noticed Loring’s clothes, and checking the smile, waited in silence for him to speak. Stephen, unabashed, smiled in a most friendly fashion, and a few words of comment upon the admirable situation of the shop, and the excellence of the stock, quite won the owner’s confidence. After a few moments of conversation, in a guile-free manner he asked: “And do you do much repairing here?”

“No,” the proprietor admitted, “very little. Most of my business is to buy and sell.”

“It seems strange that in a big city such as this there should be no demand for repairs?”

Stephen made the statement a question by the rising inflection. He spoke with the hesitating assurance which had made so many people trust him.

The proprietor shook his head in answer: “No, there is no demand.”

“Is it not that people do not think, perhaps, do not know of your place?”

“Very likely you are right,” answered the storekeeper. He was pleased by the stranger’s interest in his business.

Then Loring played his high card.

“Suppose that you had an active English-speaking agent, who would go to the offices and homes of the American and English colony, and collect umbrellas to be repaired, then would not your business flourish?”

The shop owner grasped the plan, but not with both hands.

“Y-e-s,” he answered slowly. In dealing with an American he felt that he must be on his guard.

“Well,” continued Stephen, “I am such a man, very efficient (Heaven help me!) and reliable (It won’t!). For a commission, no pay in advance, but for a commission of say ten cents for each umbrella, I will collect for you.” The umbrella man consented half reluctantly. The matter was soon arranged, and Loring hastened forth upon his rounds.

By six o’clock, after many strange experiences, and rebuffs, he had managed to collect ten umbrellas. Gaudy red, somber black, two green ones, and one white. All were in advanced stages of decrepitude. He had pleaded with the owners to let them be restored, as if each umbrella had an “inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

With his odd collection bundled under his arms, Loring started on his return to the store. Greatly pleased with the success of his scheme, he strolled along talking to himself, and not noticing where he was going.

Walking in the opposite direction to Loring on the same sidewalk was another man. His quick, decisive steps and the slightly deprecating glance which he cast at any thing of beauty in the windows of the shops that he passed proclaimed him an American. The expression on his face varied from amusement to scorn as he glanced at things that were different from those in the States. There was in his whole manner that good-humored toleration of the best achievements of another nation that marks the travelling American. The sidewalk was narrow, and the heavy shoulders of this man overshadowed half the distance across. He was covering a good yard at a stride, which was all the more remarkable as the most of his height was above the waist. Had he been a girl, his hair would have been called auburn where it showed beneath his hat. Being a man, it may be truthfully said that it matched the bricks of the building he was passing. His eyes, which were as round as the portholes of a ship, betokened a degree of honesty and kindness which matched well with the general effect of strength and homeliness given by his whole appearance. The energy of all his motions was a sharp contrast to Loring’s lazy stroll. At the second that he reached Loring, his eyes were uplifted in wondering curiosity at the bright colors of the roof tiles. His preoccupation, combined with Loring’s absorption, made a collision inevitable. And the inevitable, as usual, took place.

“I beg your pard—” began Stephen, raising his eyes.

“Stephen Loring!” exclaimed the stranger. “Where in the devil did you come from?”

“Baird Radlett!” called Stephen, as if stupefied.

They shook hands warmly. Radlett was an old friend of Stephen’s, one who had been an intimate in the days before Loring’s misfortunes.

“Come on, Steve, we’ll go and get a drink,” said Radlett.

Loring shook his head. “Not for me, thanks,” he answered.

“Phew!” whistled Radlett. “Since when?” he involuntarily exclaimed. Then for the first time he took notice of the strange load which Loring was carrying.

“What on earth, Steve?” he asked, pointing to the umbrellas.

In the old days Loring had been well off, Radlett rich, and it hurt Stephen to explain his abject poverty. He hesitated a moment, then unblushingly replied:

“Why you see, Baird, I am on a sort of house-party here, and the weather being fine, I thought that I would take all the girls’ umbrellas around to be fixed.”

Radlett stared in amazement, then both broke into shouts of laughter, as the ridiculousness of the excuse struck them simultaneously.

“See here, Steve, I know that you are in hard luck. Come down to my hotel with me, and we will talk things over,” said Radlett. Putting his arm affectionately through Loring’s, he dragged him, protesting, along with him. As they walked, Stephen explained the matter of the umbrellas, while Radlett listened amused, but a bit saddened.

“To think of dear old Steve Loring reduced to peddling umbrellas!” he said to himself.

On their way, they came to the gilt sign of the umbrellas.

“I must leave these here,” said Loring.

Radlett tactfully waited outside, while Stephen entered and deposited the results of his collection. The proprietor, who, when released from Stephen’s winning conversation, had begun to feel rather worried, was surprised and delighted at the success of the mission. He opened the cash drawer, and handed to Stephen a silver dollar. Stephen wrote down the addresses of the umbrella owners, then with his new earned dollar clinking lovingly against the keys in his pocket, he rejoined Radlett.

They walked briskly to the hotel where Radlett was staying, and stepping into the smoking room, were soon comfortably ensconced in two big leather armchairs, placed in an out-of-the-way corner of the room.