rdon me, this seat is reserved."

"Don't look like it," said Behemoth.

"But I say it is. Isn't that enough?"

"Full house; no reserved seats," observed the man placidly, squeezing
in.

The girl flashed a look at him and then was silent. A spot of red was
showing through the tan on her cheek; Garrison was watching her under
his hat-brim. He saw the spot on her cheeks slowly grow and her eyes
commence to harden. He saw that she was being annoyed surreptitiously
and quietly. Behemoth was a Strephon, and he thought that he had found
his Chloe.

Garrison pulled his hat well down over his face, rose negligently, and
entered the next car. He waited there a moment and then returned. He
swung down the aisle. As he approached the girl he saw her draw back.
Strephon's foot was deliberately pressing Chloe's.

Garrison avoided a scene for the girl's sake. He tapped the man on the
shoulder.

"Pardon me. My seat, if you please. I left it for the smoker."

The man looked up, met Garrison's cold, steady eyes, rose awkwardly,
muttered something about not knowing it was reserved, and squeezed in
with two of his companions farther down the aisle.

Garrison sat down without glancing at the girl. He became absorbed in
the morning paper--twelve hours old.

Silence ensued. The girl had understood the fabrication instantly. She
waited, her antagonism roused, to see whether Garrison would try to
take advantage of his courtesy. When he was entirely oblivious of her
presence she commenced to inspect him covertly out of the corners of her
gray eyes. After five minutes she spoke.

"Thank you," she said simply. Her voice was soft and throaty.

Garrison absently raised his hat and was about to resume the defunct
paper when he was interrupted. A hand reached over the back of the seat,
and before he had thought of resistance, he was flung violently down the
aisle.

He heard a great laugh from the Behemoth's friends. He rose slowly, his
fighting blood up. Then he became aware that his ejector was not one of
the crowd, but a newcomer; a tall man with a fierce white mustache and
imperial; dressed in a frock coat and wide, black slouch hat. He was
talking.

"How dare you insult my daughter, suh?" he thundered. "By thunder,
suh, I've a good mind to make you smart right proper for your lack of
manners, suh! How dare you, suh? You--you contemptible little--little
snail, suh! Snail, suh!" And quite satisfied at thus selecting the
most fittin