The train began to move, and the conductor seized the woman’s arms from behind and forced her forward.  A moment more and she would be pushed off the lowest step.  She turned beseeching eyes on the little group of spectators, and as she did so Phelan Harrihan sprang forward and with his hand on the railing, ran along with the slow-moving train.

With a deft movement he bent forward and apparently snatched something from the folds of her skirt.

“Get on to your luck now,” he said with an encouraging smile that played havoc with the position of his features; “if here ain’t your pocket-book all the time!”

The hysterical woman looked from the unfamiliar little brown purse in her hand, to the snub-nosed, grimy face of the young man running along the track, then she caught her breath.

“Why,—­” she cried unsteadily, “yes—­yes, it’s my purse.”

Phelan loosened his hold on the railing and had only time to scramble breathlessly up the bank before the down train, the train for Nashville which was to have been his, whizzed past.

He watched it regretfully as it slowed up at the station, then almost immediately pulled out again for the south, carrying his hopes with it.

“Corporal,” said Phelan, to the dog, who had looked upon the whole episode as a physical-culture exercise indulged in for his special benefit, “a noble act of charity is never to be regretted, but wasn’t I the original gun, not to wait for the change?”

His lack of business method seemed to weigh upon him, and he continued to apologize to Corporal: 

“It was so sudden, you know, Corp.  Couldn’t see a lady ditched, when I had a bit of stuffed leather in my pocket.  And two hundred miles to Nashville!  Well I’ll—­be—­jammed!”

He searched in his trousers pockets and found a dime in one and a hole in the other.  It was an old trick of his to hide a piece of money in time of prosperity, and then discover it in the blackness of adversity.

He held the dime out ruefully:  “That’s punk and plaster for supper, but we’ll have to depend on a hand-out for breakfast.  And, Corp,” he added apologetically, “you know I told you we was going to ride regular like gentlemen?  Well, I’ve been compelled to change my plans.  We are going to turf it twelve miles down to the watering tank, and sit out a couple of dances till the midnight freight comes along.  If a side door Pullman ain’t convenient, I’ll have to go on the bumpers, then what’ll become of you, Mr. Corporal Harrihan?”

The coming ordeal cast no shadow over Corporal.  He was declaring his passionate devotion, by wild tense springs at Phelan’s face, seeking in vain to overcome the cruel limitation of a physiognomy that made kissing well-nigh impossible.