Dorothy Dale's engagement

“ALONE IN A GREAT CITY”

“Now, Tavia!”

“Now, Dorothy!” mocked Octavia Travers, making a little face as she did so; but then, Tavia Travers could afford to “make faces,” possessing as she did such a naturally pretty one.

“We must decide immediately,” her chum, Dorothy Dale, said decidedly, “whether to continue in the train under the river and so to the main station, or to change for the Hudson tube. You know, we can walk from the tube station at Twenty-third Street to the hotel Aunt Winnie always patronizes.”

“With these heavy bags, Doro?”

“Only a block and a half, my dear Tavia. You are a strong, healthy girl.”

“But I do so like to have people do things for me,” sighed Tavia, clasping her hands. “And taxicabs are so nice.”

“And expensive,” rejoined Dorothy.

“Of course. That is what helps to make them nice,” declared Tavia. “Doro, I just love to throw away money!”

“You only think you do, my dear,” her chum said placidly. “Once you had thrown some of your own money away—some of that your father sent you to spend for your fall and winter outfit—you would sing a different tune.”

“I don’t believe I would—not if by throwing it away I really made a splurge, Doro,” sighed Tavia. “I love money.”

“You mean, you love what money enables us to have.”

“Yep,” returned the slangy Tavia. “And taxicab rides eat up money horribly. We found that out, Doro, when we were in New York before, that time—before we graduated from dear old Glenwood School.”

“But this isn’t getting us anywhere. To return——”

“‘_Revenons à nos moutons!_’ Sure! I know,” gabbled Tavia. “Let us return to our mutton. He, he! Have I forgotten my French?”

“I really think you have,” laughed Dorothy Dale. “Most of it. And almost everything else you learned at dear old Glenwood, Tavia. But, quick! Decide, my dear. How shall we enter New York City? We are approaching the Manhattan Transfer.”

“Mercy! So quick?”

“Yes. Just like that.”

“I tell you,” whispered Tavia, suddenly becoming confidential, her sparkling eyes darting a glance ahead. “Let’s leave it to that nice man.”

“Who? What man do you mean, Tavia?” demanded Dorothy, her face at once serious. “Do try to behave.”

“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.”