“Yes,” Tavia said. “Of course you would be slow. Everybody’s got a porter but us.”
Dorothy laughed mellowly. “Who’s fault do you intimate it is?” she asked. “We might have been the first out of the car.”
“He’s got one,” whispered Tavia.
Oddly enough her chum did not ask “Who?” this time. She, too, was looking at the back of the well-set-up young man whose initials seemed to be G. K. He stood confronting an importunate porter, whose smiling face was visible to the girls as he said:
“Why, Boss, yo’ can’t possibly kerry dem two big bags f’om dis end ob de platfo’m to de odder.”
The porter held out both hands for the big suitcases carried by the Western looking young man, who really appeared to be physically much better able to carry his baggage than the negro.
“I don’t suppose two-bits has anything to do with your desire to tote my bag?” suggested the white man, and the listening girls knew he must be smiling broadly.
“Why, Boss, yo’ can’t earn two-bits carryin’ bags yere; but I kin,” and the negro chuckled delightedly as he gained possession of the bags. “Come right along, Boss.”
As the porter set off, the young man turned and saw Dorothy Dale and Tavia Travers behind him. Besides themselves, indeed, this end of the long cement platform was clear. Other passengers from the in-bound train had either gone forward or descended into the tunnel under the tracks to reach the north-side platform. The only porter in sight was the man who had taken G. K.’s bags.
The weight of the shiny black bags the girls carried was obvious. Indeed, perhaps Tavia sagged perceptibly on that side—and intentionally; and, of course, her hazel eyes said “Please!” just as plain as eyes ever spoke before.