The car was all but empty when the conductor called to a drowsy old lady, his penultimate passenger:
“Hunneran Semty-seckin! Hey, lady! You ast me to leave you off at Hunneran Semty-seckin, didn't yah?”
The woman was startled from her reverie and gasped:
“Dear me! is this a Hundred and Seventy-second?”
“Thass wat I said, didn't I?”
She evicted herself with a manner of apology for intruding on the conductor's attention.
Now Kedzie was alone with the man. His coyote bark changed to an insinuating murmur. He sat down near Kedzie, took up an abandoned evening paper, and said:
“Goin' all the way, Cutie, or how about it?”
“I'm get'n' off here!” said Kedzie, with royal scorn. She resented his familiarity, and she was afraid that he was going to prove dangerous. Perhaps he meant to abduct her in this chariot.
Being a street-car conductor, the poor fellow neither understood women nor was understood by them. He accepted Kedzie's blow with resignation. He helped her down the step, his hand mellowing her arm and finding it ripe.