"That's what it was.
Somebody robbed and threw me into this car last night.
See, I've got a lump on my head as big as a man's fist."
"He sure has," agreed one of the men. "Somebody must a given him
an awful clout with a club."
"What town is this, please?"
"Mexico, Missouri."
"Mexico?"
"Yes."
"How far is it from St. Joseph?"
"St. Joseph? Why, I reckon St. Joe is nigh onto a hundred and
fifty miles from here."
Phil groaned.
"A hundred and fifty miles and not a cent in my pocket!
What shall I do? Can I send a telegram? Where is the station?"
"Sunday. Station closed."
"Sunday? That's so."
Phil walked up and down between the tracks rather unsteadily,
curiously observed by the villagers. They had heard his groans
in the freight car on the siding as they passed, and had quickly
liberated the lad.
"Do you think I could borrow enough money somewhere here to get
me to St. Joseph? I would send it back by return mail."
The men laughed long and loud.
"What are you in such a hurry to get to St. Joe for?" demanded
the spokesman of the party.
"Because I want to get back to the circus."
"Circus?" they exclaimed in chorus.
"Yes. I belong with the Sparling Combined Shows.
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