Not comprehending the meaning of this question, but thinking the countryman meditated a religious attack on those who were present, the brakeman replied: 

“Not to-day; these are good Catholics.”

“Ye dinna tell me!” and his eyes and mouth expanded in surprise.  “An’ are they repeatin’ their prayers?” he innocently asked.

“Oh, yes, everyone of them,” was the reply.

“Then let me oot o’ this!” he cried, reaching for the door.  “It’s to Halifax I want to go, so open the door an’ let me oot o’ this.”

“There! sit down and be quiet, or you’ll get put out fast enough,” replied the brakeman, giving the man a shove into the seat.  “You sit still where you are, mind, or you’ll get into trouble,” he added, as he turned to attend to his duties outside.

Here was his chance.  Our friend from the country felt that he was in trouble already.  He had no intention of joining the worshippers, for he was a member of the good old Scotch Kirk; so he opened the car-door, and stepped out to the platform outside.

The swift, sidelong jerks almost took him off his feet.  Grasping the hand-rail, and looking around for some means of escape, he cautiously stepped across into the better furnished first-class car behind.

“Bless me, but I’m in luck!” was his inward comment, as he beheld the comfortable seats.  Taking the first empty one, he sank down on the cushions with evident delight shining from his eyes at his blissful surroundings.

But the argus-eyed conductor soon spied him, and not recognizing him as a ticket-holder, swooped down upon him at once.

“Your ticket, sir.”

“The same to yersel’, ma frien’!” was the courteous reply, thinking this some new form of salutation.

“Here! no nonsense! where’s your ticket? let’s see where you’re going.”

“Weel, sir, I’m hopin’ to get to Halifax some time ’fore long.  We seem to be gaun as the craws flee, so nae doot we’ll soon get there.  Does this—­er—­buildin’—­stop there for victuals or—­or onythin’?”

The conductor, thinking him out of his mind, said more mildly: 

“Who came with you?  Who is looking after you aboard the cars?”

“Oh! a nice young chiel yonder; but he left me alane there, so I stepped oot withoot his kennin’ an’ popped in here.”

“Ah, yes; just so.  I’ve no doubt there is a spare room in one of the public institutions awaiting you.  What sort of a looking man has you in charge?”

“Oh! he’s a clever young chiel, wi’ a door-plate on his bonnet; the sexton, I tak’ it.”

Not making much out of this information, the conductor left him to make inquiries ahead, tapping his forehead significantly to some passengers near, who had overheard the conversation, and who, as soon as the conductor was out of sight, began to question the “harmless lunatic.”

His answers to their inquiries were not more clear than those the conductor had elicited, and Mr. Sherwood, who sat a few seats behind, becoming indignant at the rude jokes that were being made at the expense of the unfortunate man, stepped forward to interfere.