But though he did not realize it, in his veins flowed the adventurous blood of his father, and to it the dim trails were calling.
In four days he set his face eagerly toward the dun deserts and the sage-brush gray.
At Chicago a man took the upper berth in Thurston's section, and settled into the seat with a deep sigh--presumably of thankfulness.

Thurston, with the quick eye of those who write, observed the whiteness of his ungloved hands, the coppery tan of cheeks and throat, the clear keenness of his eyes, and the four dimples in the crown of his soft, gray hat, and recognized him as a fine specimen of the Western type of farmer, returning home from the stockman's Mecca.

After that he went calmly back to his magazine and forgot all about him.
Twenty miles out, the stranger leaned forward and tapped him lightly on the knee.

"Say, I hate to interrupt yuh," he began in a whimsical drawl, evidently characteristic of the man, "but I'd like to know where it is I've seen yuh before." Thurston glanced up impersonally, hesitated between annoyance and a natural desire to, be courteous, and replied that he had no memory of any previous meeting.
"Mebby not," admitted the other, and searched the face of Thurston with his keen eyes.

It came to Phil that they were also a bit wistful, but he went unsympathetically back to his reading.
Five miles more and be touched Thurston again, apologetically yet insistently.