“Goodness me!” returned Dorothy, in some exasperation. “Who could miss that hat?”
The young man in question had put on his broad-brimmed gray hat. He was just the style of man that such a hat became.
The young man lifted down the heavy suitcase from the rack—the one on which Dorothy had seen the big, black letters, “G. K.” He had a second suitcase of the same description under his feet. He set both out into the aisle, threw his folded light overcoat over his arm, and prepared to make for the front door of the car as the train began to slow down.
“Come on, now!” cried Tavia, suddenly in a great hurry.
But Dorothy had to put on her coat, and to make sure that she looked just right in the mirror beside her chair. All Tavia had to do was to toss her summer fur about her neck and grab up her traveling bag.
“We’ll be left!” she cried. “The train doesn’t stop here long.”
“You run, then, and tell them to wait,” Dorothy said calmly.
They were, however, the last to leave the car—the last to leave the train, in fact—at the elevated platform which gives a broad view of the New Jersey meadows.
“My goodness me!” gasped Tavia, as the brakeman helped them to the platform, and waved his hand for departure. “My goodness me! We’re clear at this end of this awful platform, and the tube train stops—and of course starts—at the far end. A mile to walk with these bags and not a redcap in sight. Oh, yes! there’s one,” she added faintly.
“Redcap?” queried Dorothy. “Oh! you mean a porter.”