superiority, and he had told funny stories that were as funny as
the moss-bearded cypresses in a lone bayou. While he was denouncing
New York as the home of ignorance and vice, the other men were having
sport with him--sport so cruel that only his own cruelty blinded
him to it.

When the porter summoned the passengers to pass under the whisk broom,
Adna remembered that he had not settled upon his headquarters in
New York, and he said to a man on whom he had inflicted a vile cigar:
"Say, I forgot to ask you. What's a good hotel in New York that ain't
too far from the railroad and don't rob you of your last nickel?
Or is they one?"

One of the smoking-room humorists mocked his accent and ventured
a crude jape.

"You can save the price of a hack-ride by going to Mrs. Biltmore's
new boarding-house. It's right across the road from the depot."

If Adna had been as keen as he thought he was, or if the porter
had not alarmed him just then by his affectionate interest, even
Adna would have noted the grins on the faces of the men.

But he broke the porter's heart by dodging the whisk broom and
hustling his excited family to their feet. They were permitted to
hale their own hand-baggage to the platform, where two red-capped
Kaffirs reached for it together. There was danger of an altercation,
but the bigger of the two frightened the smaller away by snapping
his shiny eyeballs alarmingly. The smaller one took a second look
at Adna and retreated with scorn, snickering: