“Am behaving,” declared Tavia, nodding. “But I’m a good sport. Let’s leave it to him.” “Whom do you mean?” “You know. That nice, Western looking young man who opened the window for us that time. He is sitting in that chair just yonder. Don’t you see?” and she indicated a pair of broad shoulders in a gray coat, above which was revealed a well-shaped head with a thatch of black hair. “Do consider!” begged Dorothy, catching Tavia’s hand as though she feared her chum was about to get up to speak to this stranger. “This is a public car. We are observed.” “Little silly!” said Tavia, smiling upon her chum tenderly. “You don’t suppose I would do anything so crude—or rude—as to speak to the gentleman? ‘Fie! fie! fie for shame! Turn your back and tell his name!’ And you don’t know it, you know you don’t, Doro.” Dorothy broke into smiles again and shook her head; her own eyes, too, dancing roguishly. “I only know his initials,” she said. “What?” gasped Tavia Travers in something more than mock horror. “Yes. They are ‘G. K.’ I saw them on his bag. Couldn’t help it,” explained Dorothy, now laughing outright. “But decide, dear! Shall we change at Manhattan Transfer?” “If _he_ does—there!” chuckled Tavia. “We’ll get out if the nice Western cowboy person does. Oh! he’s a whole lot nicer looking than Lance Petterby.” “Dear me, Tavia! Haven’t you forgotten Lance yet?” “Never!” vowed Tavia, tragically. “Not till the day of my death—and then some, as Lance would himself say.” “You are incorrigible,” sighed Dorothy. Then: “He’s going to get out, Tavia!” “Oh! oh! oh!” crowed her chum, under her breath. “You were looking.” “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.