"That ain't the system of transfers we use in this town. You might 'a' got killed." "Oh, well, let's not worry about that now." "I'd ought to have you pulled. Three years I've been on this run and--" "Nice run. Wages good?" "Don't get gay, young fellow. I can tell you one thing. You've got to pay another fare." Clay paid it. The conductor retired to his post. He grinned in spite of his official dignity. There was something about this young fellow he liked. After he had been in New York awhile he would be properly tamed. "What about that movie job? Is it pannin' out pay gold?" Lindsay asked Kitty. Bit by bit her story came out. It was a common enough one. She had been flim-flammed out of her money by the alleged school of moving-picture actors, and the sharpers had decamped with it. As she looked at her recovered friend, Kitty gradually realized an outward transformation in his appearance. He was dressed quietly in clothes of perfect fit made for him by Colin Whitford's tailor. From shoes to hat he was a New Yorker got up regardless of expense. But the warm smile, the strong, tanned face, the grip of the big brown hand that buried her small one--all these were from her own West. So too had been the nonchalance with which he had stepped from the rail of one moving bus to that of the other, just as though this were his usual method of transfer. "I've got a job at last," she explained to him. "I couldn't hardly find one. They say I'm not trained to do anything." "What sort of a job have you?" "I'm working downtown in Greenwich Village, selling cigarettes. I'm Sylvia the Cigarette Girl. At least that's what they call me. I carry a tray of them evenings into the cafes." "Greenwich Village?" asked Clay. Kitty was not able to explain that the Village is a state of mind which is the habitat of long-haired men and short-haired women, the brains of whom functioned in a way totally alien to all her methods of thought. The meaning of Bohemianism was quite lost on her simple soul. "They're jist queer," she told him. "The women bob their hair and wear smocks and sandals. The men are long-haired softies. They all talk kinda foolish." Kitty despaired of making the situation clear to him and resorted to the personal. "Can't you come down to-night to The Purple Pup or The Sea Siren and see for yourself?" she proposed, and gave him directions for finding the classic resorts. "I reckon they must be medicine fakirs," decided Clay. "I've met up with these long-haired guys before. Sure I'll come." "To-night?" "You betcha, little pardner, I'll be there." "I'm dressed silly--in bare feet and sandals and what they call a smock. You won't mind that, will you?" "You'll look good to me, no matter what you wear, little Miss Colorado," he told her with his warm, big brother's smile.