Although he offered no confidences, it appeared to the son that there was something a little more cheerful in his voice and manner.

It may have been only the anticipation of departure; for he was going West in a day or two, and it came out that Wilton was going with him.
The day he left, Duane drove him to the station.

There was a private car, the "Cyane," attached to the long train.

Wilton met them, spoke pleasantly to Duane; but Colonel Mallett did not invite his son to enter the car, and adieux were said where they stood.
As the young fellow turned and passed beneath the car-windows, he caught a glimpse above him of a heavy-jowled, red face into which a cigar was stuck--a perfectly enormous expanse of face with two little piglike eyes almost buried in the mottled fat.
"That's Max Moebus," observed a train hand respectfully, as Duane passed close to him; "I guess there's more billions into that there private car than old Pip's crowd can dig out of their pants pockets on pay day." A little, dry-faced, chin-whiskered man with a loose pot-belly and thin legs came waddling along, followed by two red-capped negroes with his luggage.

He climbed up the steps of the "Cyane"; the train man winked at Duane, who had turned to watch him.
"Amos Flack," he said.