"Young lady, you're in the wrong seat," that official announced in a tone
that admitted of no trifling. "You were in eighteen in the other car and
I had to move you to twenty-three in here. Just follow me, please."
He reached in and took one of the suitcases, and Bob matter-of-factly
took the other two. The girl opened her mouth, glanced at the conductor,
and thought better of whatever she was going to say. Meekly she followed
him to another section on the other side of the car and found herself
compelled to share a seat with a severe-looking gray-haired woman,
evidently a sufferer from hay fever, as she sneezed incessantly.
Bob dropped down in his old place and shot a quizzical look at Betty.
"Flame City may be tough," he observed, "and I'd be the last one to claim
that it possessed one grain of culture; but at that, I can't remember
having a pitched battle with a girl during my care-free existence there."
"She's used to having her own way," said Betty, with a laudable ambition
to be charitable, an intention which she inadvertently destroyed by
adding vigorously: "She'd get that knocked out of her if she lived West a
little while.
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