On a small table at the head of the sleeper’s berth there was a large silver pitcher, a glass, two books, a fat leather pocketbook, a thick billfold, a pocket purse, and a heavy gold watch, with a small, black ribbon guard. I took all the articles except the pitcher, glass, and books, and started for the door I entered, praying that the attendant wouldn’t appear. I saw nothing of him, and concluded he was somewhere forward, gossiping or shooting dice with the porters.

It was but a minute’s work to get back upon the top of a coach, where I lay and let the cinders do their worst. The next stop was a junction, where I intended to get off and cross the line into Washington. The only train in sight was a westbound passenger waiting on a sidetrack. I was afraid to hang around, and when it pulled out I went underneath on the rods and got back into Vancouver after an absence of five hours. I planted the watch in the railroad yards, and never saw it again.

On my way uptown to get a room, I emptied the billfold and purse, throwing them away. In the room I looked over the money, and found I had enough to keep me six months, if I kept away from the faro tables.