One night when the Limited was roaring up from the Missouri River against one of those March rains that come out of the east, there came to Patsy one of the temptations that are hardest for a man of his kind nature to withstand. The trial began at Galesburg. Patsy was hugging the rear end of the day coach in order to keep out of the cruel storm, when his eyes rested upon the white face of a poorly clad woman. She stood motionless as a statue, voiceless as the Sphinx, with the cold rain beating upon her uplifted face, until Patsy cried "All aboard." Then she pulled herself together and climbed into the train. The conductor, leaving his white light upon the platform of the car, stepped down and helped the dripping woman into the coach. When the train had dashed away again up the rain-swept night, Patsy found the wet passenger rocking to and fro on the little seat that used to run lengthwise of the car up near the stove, before the use of steam heat.

"Ticket," said the conductor.

The woman lifted her eyes to his, but seemed to be staring at something beyond.

"Ticket, please."

"Yes—y-e-a-s," she spoke as though the effort caused her intense pain. "I want—to—go to Chicago."

"Yes. Have you a ticket?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Where's your ticket?"

"I ain't got no ticket."

"Have you got money?"

"No. I do' want money. I jist want you to take me to Chicago."

"But I can't take you without you pay fare."

"Can't you? I've been standin' there in the rain all night, but nobody would let me on the train—all the trains is gone but this one. I'd most give up when you said, 'Git on,' er somethin'."

"Why do you want to go to Chicago?"

"Oh! I must be there fur the trial."

"Who's trial?"

"Terrence's. They think my boy, Terrence, killed a man, an' I'm goin' up to tell th' judge. Of course, they don't know Terrence. He's wild and runs around a heap, but he's not what you may call bad."

The poor woman was half-crazed by her grief, and her blood was chilled by the cold rain. She could not have been wetter at the bottom of Lake Michigan. When she ceased speaking, she shivered.

"It was good in you to let me git on, an' I thank you very kindly."

"But I can't carry you unless you can pay."

"Oh! I kin walk soon's we git ther."

"But you can't get there. I'll have to stop and put you off."

The unhappy woman opened her eyes and mouth and stared at the conductor.

"Put—me—off?"

"Yes."

"It's rainin' ain't it?" She shivered again, and tried to look out into the black night.

"Don't you know better than to get onto a train without a ticket or money to pay your fare?"

"Yes; but they'll hang Terrence, they'll hang 'im, they'll hang 'im," and she moaned and rocked herself.

Patsy went on through the train and when he came back the woman was still rocking and staring blankly at the floor, as he had found her before. She had to look at him for some time before she could remember him.

"Can't you go no faster?"

Patsy sighed.

"What time is it?"

"Six o'clock."

"Will we git there by half after nine?—th' trial's at ten."

"Yes."

Patsy sat down and looked at the wreck.

"Now, a man who could put such a woman off, in such a storm, at such an hour, and with a grief like that," said Patsy to himself, "would pasture a goat on his grandmother's grave."

When Patsy woke at two o'clock that afternoon, he picked up a noon edition of an all-day paper, and the very first word he read was "Not guilty." That was the heading of the police news.

"There was a pathetic scene in Judge Meyer's court this morning at the preliminary hearing of the case of Terrence Cassidy, charged with the murder of the old farmer at Spring Bank on Monday last. All efforts to draw a confession from Cassidy had failed, and the detectives had come to the conclusion that he was either very innocent or very guilty—there was no purgatory for Terrence; it was heaven or the hot place, according to the detectives. For once the detectives were right. Terrence was very innocent. It appears that the tramp who was killed on the Wabash last night made a confession to the trainmen, after being hit by the engine, to the effect that he had murdered the old farmer, and afterwards, at the point of an empty pistol, forced a young Irishman, whom he met upon the railroad track, to exchange clothes with him. That accounts for the blood stains upon Cassidy's coat, but, of course, nobody credited his story.

"The tramp's confession, however, was wired to the general manager of the Wabash by the conductor of the out-going train, together with a description of the tramp's clothes, which description tallies with that given of those garments worn by Cassidy.

"This good news did not reach the court, however, until after the prisoner had been arraigned. When asked the usual question, 'Guilty, or not guilty?' the boy stood up and was about to address some remarks to the court, when suddenly there rushed into the room about the sorriest looking woman who ever stood before a judge. She was poorly clad, wet as a rat, haggard and pale. Her voice was hoarse and unearthly. Nobody seemed to see her enter. Suddenly, as if she had risen from the floor, she stood at the railing, raised a trembling hand and shouted, as well as she could shout, 'Not guilty!'

"Before the bewildered judge could lift his gavel, the prosecuting attorney rose, dramatically, and asked to be allowed to read a telegram that had just been received, which purported to be the signed confession of a dying man.

"As might be expected, there were not many dry eyes in that court when, a moment later, the boy was sobbing on his mother's wet shoulder, and she, rocking to and fro, was saying softly 'Poor Terrence, my poor Terrence.'"

As Patsy was walking back from Hooley's Theatre, where he had gone to get tickets (this was his night off), he met the acting chief clerk in one of the departments to which, under the rules then in vogue, he owed allegiance.

"I want to see you at the office," said the amateur official, and Patsy was very much surprised at the brevity of the speech. He went up to his room and tried to read, but the ever recurring thought that he was "wanted at the office" disturbed him and he determined to go at once and have it out.

The conductor removed his hat in the august presence and asked, timidly, what was wanted.

"You ought to know," said the great judge.

"But I don't," said Patsy, taking courage as he arrayed himself, with a clear conscience, on the defensive.

"Are you in the habit of carrying people on the Denver Limited who have no transportation?"

"No, sir."

"Then, how does it happen that you carried a woman from Galesburg to Chicago last night who had neither ticket nor money, so far as we know? It will do you no good to deny it, for I have the report of a special agent before me, and—"

"I have no desire to deny it, sir. All I deny is that this is your business."

"What?" yelled the official.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I should not have spoken in that way; but what I wish to say and wish you to understand is that I owe you no explanation."

"I stand for the company, sir."

"So do I, and have stood as many years as you have months. I have handled as many dollars for them as you have ever seen dimes, and, what's more to the point, I stand ready to quit the moment the management loses confidence in me, and with the assurance of a better job. Can all the great men say as much?"

The force and vehemence of the excited and indignant little Irishman caused the "management" to pause in its young career.

"Will you tell me why you carried this woman who had no ticket?"

"No. I have rendered unto CÆsar that which is CÆsar's. For further particulars, see my report," and with that Patsy walked out.

"Let's see, let's see," said the "management"; "'Two passengers, Galesburg to Chicago, one ticket, one cash fare.' What an ass I've made of myself; but, just wait till I catch that Hawkshaw."