t she had left him with
the promise never again to speak to him. She was in a far country, and
he was a friend from home.

The conductor bustled down the aisle. "Say, where do you get this
movie-stunt stuff? You can't jump from the top of one bus to another."

Clay smiled genially. "I can't, but I did."

"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.