“Yes. What makes you think so?”
“Because you’re so kind. And you’re awful strong.”
“That suitcase is much too heavy for you. You’ll injure yourself with it,” said Darcy, who was no larger than the other, severely.
“Metal advertising cuts,” explained the other. “I only have to carry it twice a week.”
“Where to?”
“Thirtieth over beyond Third Av’nyeh.”
“But that’s a terribly long way to carry that weight.”
The woman sighed. “Yes, I know. It’s nearer by the Fourth Av’nyeh line, but I go this way because the bus conductors are so decent about helpin’ you on and off,” said she, paying a merited compliment to the most courteous and serviceable of New York’s transportation employees. “It’s worth the extra nickel.”
“I’ll get off with you and give you a lift.” Different arrangements, however, were in process. Nearing the corner of the prospective debarkation Mr. Jacob Remsen arose, walked to the door, and vigorously yanked the corpulent valise from its nook.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, dividing his impersonal and courteous regard between the two occupants of the seat, “but I overheard your conversation. It just happens that I’m bound for Third Avenue, myself. So, if you will permit me—”