His fine dark eyes filled with tears.

The conductor, you see, was explaining that he would have to pay the
fare to North Philadelphia and then take the first train back from
there to Newark.

We feared, for a few minutes, that it really would be a case for a
chirurgeon, with cupping and leeching and smelling salts. Our rotund
friend was in a bad way. His heart, plainly, was broken. From his
right-hand trouser emerged a green roll. With delicate speed and
tact the conductor hastened this tragic part of the performance. His
silver punch flashed in his hand as he made change, issued a cash
slip, and noted the name and address of the victim, for some
possible future restitution, we surmised, or perhaps only as a
generous anæsthetic.

The stout man sat down a few seats in front of us and we studied his
back. We have never seen a more convincing display of chagrin. With
a sombre introspective stare he gazed glassily before him. We never
saw any one show less enthusiasm for the scenery. The train flashed
busily along through the level green meadows, which blended exactly
with the green plush of the seats, but our friend was lost in a
gruesome trance. Even his cigar (long since gone out) was still,
save for an occasional quiver.

The conductor came to our seat, looking, good man, faintly stern and
sad, like a good parent who has had, regretfully, to chastise an
erring urchin.

"Well," we said, "the next time that chap gets on a train he'll take