turned on the water and sopped his handkerchief, applying it to the lump on his head.
"Was it Mort Bemis?" his mind ran on. "No, I am sure it was not. Bemis is stubby and broad, this fellow was tall and slim. Looked like a half-starved rat. Who could it be?"
In a minute or two Ralph went back to the car that had proven for him a kind of Pandora's box.
He lifted himself through the open doorway and flashed some matches.
The car was bare. It smelled of tobacco smoke, and there was a litter of cigarette stubs in one corner. The other closed door was back-sheathed with smooth boards. Under these Ralph discovered some fresh whittlings, or splinters. He inspected door and floor more closely.
"Ah, I see," he observed: "the stowaway has been killing time by cutting his name on the pillar of fame."
The door surface bore a record of various jack-knife experts. Idle hands, belonging to all kinds of ride-stealers, had from time to time cut their initials on the smooth boards.
There were some pencilings, too—all kinds of doggerel slang and initials. Thus: "Turnpike Tim on his fift' trip sout'." "Mugsey, the Terror," and the warning line: "Bad road for tramps. Calaboose twice for flipping trains."
