"Mistuh Washin'ton Jeffe'son Bones, look at me carefully. Do you see any dust upon my garments?"
"Yassuh, yassuh," chuckled the porter. "Don't see much else, suh."
"And could you—on a bet of about a dollar—undertake to put me in a condition not to damage the seats?"
"Yassuh; sho' could, suh!"
"Go to it, then," said the stranger. "I'm after you."
He did not return for an hour. Then he was noticeably cleaner, and the odour of horse was replaced by that of cigars, less objectionable to Clyde. As he took his seat he glanced at her frankly, a shade of drollery in his eye, as if he were quite aware of her disapproval, and was amused by it. She stiffened a trifle, ignoring him utterly. Not by a hair's breadth would she encourage this free-and-easy person.
For some hours she had been annoyed by the behaviour of a man several seats away. Whenever she had glanced in his direction he had been looking at her. Once he had smiled ingratiatingly. Clyde's life had not included first-hand experiences of this kind, but she was able to classify the man accurately. Still, there had been nothing definite to complain of. Now this individual arose and came down the aisle. In his hand was a book. He halted by her side.
"Beg pardon," said he. "Would you care to look at this?"
"No, thank you," she replied frigidly.
"It isn't bad," he persisted. "I'll leave it with you."