# Bob Chester's Grit/Chapter 7
#### CHAPTER VII
##### GOOD LUCK FROM BAD

By dint of questioning, Bob reached the Weehawken ferry and was soon on a boat, gliding through the dark waters of the river toward the Jersey shore.
Never had the boy been on a ferryboat at night, and the spectacle presented by the brilliantly lighted buildings filled him with wonder. Fortunate was it for him that he was so enthralled, for the boat had bumped into her slip and the people were rushing ashore before he had time to realize that he was leaving behind all he had ever known of a home.
Indeed, so absorbed was he in gazing about him, that it was not till one of the crew exclaimed: "Hey, kid, get ashore. You can't beat your way back on this boat," that he knew they had reached Weehawken.
"I'm not trying to beat my way," rejoined Bob. "I'm not going back to New York. I'm going ​to Chicago—and then to Oklahoma," he added in a boyish attempt to impress the boatman with his importance.
"Well, you'd better hurry if you want to make the train for Chicago," returned the other. "This is the last boat before it starts. You'll have to hustle if you've any baggage, or are you travelling 'light'?"
But Bob had not waited to hear the comment upon his lack of equipment, and, before the words had left the mouth of the boatman, was running up the gangway and into the station.
The glare of the lights after the darkness of the river and the many people scurrying to and fro, together with the porters and trainmen calling and shouting, bewildered the lad who had never been so far away from home before, and he stood in the middle of the station as though dazed.
Noticing the woe-begone figure, the station policeman walked over to where Bob was standing.
"What's the matter, kid? Looking for some one?"
"No. I'm going away, to Chicago. I wish you'd tell me where to go to get a chair car."
"Not running away from home, we you?" inquired the official, scanning Bob's face searchingly.
​This constant suggestion that he was running away, angered the boy, and he determined to put an end to it.
"No, I'm not," he retorted impatiently. "I'm going out West to become a ranchman, though I don't see why it is any of your business. The man on the boat told me I would have to hurry if I was going to catch my train."
"Got any money?" inquired the policeman, ignoring the boy's manner.
"Surely." And Bob drew forth the precious ten dollars he had managed to save from the pittance his guardian had paid him and all that remained from the money the magistrate had given him.
"All right. Come with me. I'll show you," responded the official, assured by the sight of the money that Bob was not trying to steal a ride on the train.
Quickly the two made their way to the ticket office.
"Ticket for this youngster," announced the policeman.
"Where to?" asked the agent.
"Chicago, in a chair car," answered Bob.
"'Leven thirty," returned the man in the ticket office, turning to his rack and taking down a long strip of paper, which he stamped rapidly.
With trembling fingers, Bob counted out the ​money, and shoved it through the opening in the window.
"Correct," muttered the agent, as he counted the roll of bills. "Now hurry, or you won't get your train."
As Bob received the amazingly long ticket, his breast swelled with pride. Its possession meant the beginning of his long-cherished dream, and he started to study it, when the voice of the officer warned him:
"Come this way, kid. Go through gate No. 3. You can read your ticket when you get on the train; you'll have time enough before you reach Chicago. Good luck on your ranch," he added in a kindly banter.
But Bob had no time to reply, for the trainmen were already shouting their "All aboard for Chicago," and it was only by running down the platform that he was able to get on a car just as the wheels began to move.
The car in which Bob found himself was upholstered in dark green, and the woodwork was of polished mahogany. Never had he seen anything so magnificent, and as he sank into a highback seat, he uttered a sigh of contentment.
But he was not allowed to enjoy his luxury long.
While he was gazing with wide-staring eyes at everything about him, a colored porter entered ​the car and languidly glanced from one to another of the occupants, as though making a mental calculation of the tips he would receive, when his eyes fell on the poorly-clad figure of Bob, holding his box of lunch on his knees.
With an exclamation of surprise, the porter hastened to where the lad was sitting.
"What you-all doin' in hyar?" he demanded harshly.
The tone in which the question was asked now caused the other passengers, who had hitherto been too busy getting themselves comfortably settled to notice Bob, to turn their gaze upon him.
"I'm going to Chicago," returned Bob.
But the hostile look on the porter's face scared him, and he could not help a tremor that crept into his voice as he made his reply.
"Whar's yer ticket?" snarled the negro.
Reaching into his pocket, Bob drew forth the long strip of paper and presented it to the officious porter.
"The ticket's all right," grunted the man. "Now, whar's youah parlah cyar ticket?"
"My what?" asked Bob.
"Youah pariah cyar ticket."
"That's all the ticket I have," returned Bob. "Isn't that enough? I told the man I wanted a chair-car ticket, and that's what he gave me."
"Huh! I thought so. This ain't no chair cyar. ​This is a pariah cyar. The cyar you-all want is up front, four cyars ahead. Now get out of hyar lively."
"But I can't get out while the train's going," protested Bob. "I might get hurt, and—and besides, I want to go to Chicago, and if I get off I'll lose my train."
And in Bob's voice, as he pictured himself in his mind left beside the railroad tracks in a strange place and at night, there was a plaintive appeal.
"You don't have to git off ther train," snarled the porter. "All you gotta do is to walk right fru ther other cyars, three of 'em, mind you, and you'll find your chair cyar. The idea of you-all getting into a pariah cyar with a chair-cyar ticket."
Reassured by the information that it would be unnecessary for him to leave the train in order to reach the proper car. Bob rose from the soft and luxurious seat slowly.
"Come, hurry," growled the porter, making a move as though to seize Bob by the arm and drag him from the car.
But before he could do so, the stern voice of an elderly and well-dressed man, who was occupying the second seat ahead, exclaimed:
"Porter, can't you see this boy is unaccustomed ​to travelling? Why don't you show him the way to the chair car?"
"What, me take that crittur fru three coaches? It's——"
But the negro was not given the opportunity to finish.
Bumping into the porter so that he knocked him to one side, the man who had taken the negro to task for his treatment of Bob exclaimed:
"Then I will show him the way. Come, son."
And he held out his hand, while all anger had disappeared from his face, as he looked at Bob kindly.
"My name is Bob Chester," said the boy, taking the outstretched hand and shaking it.
"And mine is Horace Perkins," returned the elder man, unable to restrain a smile as he thought of the unceremonious introduction to himself, who practically owned the road. "I am sorry you should have had so unpleasant an experience."
And as the railroad magnate and the poorly-clad boy passed from sight of those in the car, the porter moaned:
"Oh, lawdy, lawdy! Ah sho has done got mahself in a mess."
And the comments of the other passengers, as they prophesied the punishment the railroad ​president would inflict on his uncivil employee, told him that they agreed with his opinion thoroughly.
As Bob and his distinguished guide reached the chair car, the latter beckoned to the brakeman and said:
"I am Mr. Perkins. I presume you know that I am the president of this road. I want you to keep an eye on this boy. He isn't accustomed to travelling. He'll probably need something to eat to-morrow, so either take him into one of the railroad restaurants, or bring him some lunch into the car. Here's some money for his meals."
But before his benefactor could withdraw his hand from his pocket, Bob exclaimed:
"I have my lunch with me, right here in this box, Mr. Perkins. I'm just as much obliged to you, though."
A moment the railroad president hesitated, then realizing from the look on Bob's face that he would give offense should he press his gift, he smiled and said:
"All right, son. Just as you wish. But I want you to be my guest at breakfast in the morning."
And again shaking hands with Bob, Mr. Perkins left the car.